I've often dreamt myself.
And more than anyone else, I've dreamt myself the artist. Finely tuned perplexities in person and place, vocalized in a gambit of heart.
Yet these days when my emotions seem closer and realer than ever, microscope tuned to the beat of the heart and not the days that carry it, the emotions are blurry and the feelings too quick to consider. I can't ever tell what makes me happy or sad. I am empowered and defeated, a gluttony of skimmed thoughts and feelings and a hodgepodge of porridgy wants.
This is the truth of that: I have often dreamt myself different. But I am the indecision and the indirection. I am the uncommitted that rolls with the punches, every punch but his own. There is no one song to sing, and this voice, this voice that always sounds out of tune and out of touch, is just that. And in that, finally, is my persisting essence of undefined labor and love.
It is what it is.
