Dreaming of gold

The thing about dreams is you never know where they're going to take you. You can't tell where they'll begin, or where they'll end, IF they ever do end. The swirls of colors; the swirls of yearning dancing behind your eyelids waiting to be revealed as you wake up the next day. Maybe there's a reason we don't remember our dreams, and maybe there's a reason we do. Dreams are the doorway to psychology. Dreams are the only way the world can truly speak to your soul. I believe the only way you may understand and figure things out is through dreaming.

Pot of Gold

By: Dianna Vermillion

Together we chased after the rainbow

to find the pot of gold; but in each other,

we found our own treasure to unfold.

Right Time

Her stomach quivered with anxiety. She aimed all of her focus at her rubbery legs to keep from tripping over her own feet, but the hesitation in her step remained painfully obvious.  She swore her forehead was glistening with drops of sweat, but every time she brought her up to her forehead there was nothing. She felt the gravel giving and then crunching under her shoes. The grey dust stained her toes as she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Once again, the awkward silence had risen from it's grave. Besides the occasional car that drove past, it was so quiet she almost forgot they were walking side by side. Almost. It felt like a dream; a moment frozen in time; although the gravel stained his shoes just as real as it stained hers. She couldn't avoid it forever, no matter how damn good at it she was. She knew she could say no and walk out, but it didn't feel right. She had known this was coming and she had made her decision. For once in her life, her heart and mind were agreeing, even if it was with some hesitance.


"It's desperately sad, that this character who deserves so much, ends up with nothing again."

                   --David Tennant

The Dream of Reality

Dreams are always an extreme. Dreams can imprison you in your own mind. Encased in the folds of your thought process; either dancing on water or swimming through the depths of hell. Exploring your mind could be a ship getting pulled under by a kracken. Maybe you can sing. Or maybe your heart is upside down; it's screwed up but it still keeps you breathing. Or maybe a pair of eyes placed backwards. You may only ever see your head, but at least you can see at all. Dreams can carry fears. Fears are the unknown. Our dreams may scare us because they are a carrier of the unknown. They infect us with an idea and suddenly everyone runs, screaming. Our dreams could be controlling or our dreams could be releasing. Our dreams may eat us alive or spit us out. Maybe we are dreams, or maybe we are our own dreams.

"Your dream doesn't have an expiration date. Take a deep breathe, and try again."
    --Unknown

My mark

I'm not perfect. I will never be perfect. But I don't want to be perfect. While everyone else walks in white, I leave footprints in black. The smallest difference; a small drop of colored paint in a world sketched in gray scale. So while everyone else walks in white, I leave footprints in black. My footprints.

"somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue, and the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true."
        --Lyman Frank Baum

The Possibility of Heroes

I can’t recall the exact place, the exact minute, or just exactly what it was that I was doing at the time. But I can tell you that it’s a sensation, not a memory. Growing up, you want nothing more than to be like everybody else. You see the book cover, not what the pages behind it are filled with. Maybe at one point you wanted to look like Barbie. Or maybe you wanted to be the strongest person in the world, like you thought your dad was. But that’s the catch: it’s only a thought. When you’re young you have the innocence of childhood. The moment in life where your parents, siblings, family, will always stick their necks out for you. They’ll hold your hand, be your best friend, do whatever it takes to see you grow your wings. But once you’ve grown your wings, the wind sweeps you off your feet and carries you away. Yes, you still label those people as your family, but they no longer hold your hand. They are not the same shells of the people you grew up with and thought you knew. Falling into adulthood lets you flip the front cover of that book. And you finally find out why you can’t judge a book by it’s cover; because the cover is so misleading. The hero figure that held you while you cried about the monsters under your bed is now the same one who pushes you into uncomfortable situations with hopes that you’ll learn from it. The older sibling that protected you from the thunder and lightning now makes fun of you in front of their friends.

To me it’s not a memory, but a sensation of waking up one day and realizing you don’t have any heroes and you don’t look up to anybody anymore. It’s the feeling you get when you wake up from sleeping. When the sky is half awake and half asleep, just like you. Confusion sets in as you realize you have no memory of how long it’s been since you first fell asleep. I came up in a time with no heroes because I cracked the shell of childhood. Heroes are a reflection in a pond to me. Sometimes you can see them, but in my life they never seem to be real. You can admire someone’s qualities, characteristics, looks, but is there really a single person you want to be exactly like? People screw up so many times. No one is perfect and you need to be able to except that. But I would rather know that I am in control, independant, and making my own mistakes, than copying someone else’ s. We learn from other’s mistakes’, but we don’t take note until they happen to us directly. If we try, we can avoid the world’s mistakes. I want to be me. I don’t want to sit around and be like someone else, or sit around and wait for someone to come save me. Because when you sit around and wait, you have no proof that someone will show up, and you have no proof that following their path will be the right choice. I came up in a time with no heroes because I choose to rely on myself and not believe in a chance that I’m sick of having to fix.





"A bird sitting on a tree is never afraid of the branch breaking, because her trust is not on the branch but on her own wings."

--Unknown

Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart

Those masterful images become complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweeping of a street,
old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut,
who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start,
In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.

--William Butler Yeates