The child that dreams

I will not write a poem. Unless the poem scribbles itself, I stubbornly stand for the prose unleashed from the uncried tears of a child, unborn yet ready to exist. A child who sees injustice, who fails to understand the lies unless a story’s on the stage, a different one than the reality of life. A blossom of a well-remembered beauty, a peaceful, joyful goodness, a life uncut in sides, the unborn child remembers:

I can still see the white and vivid bright sweet colors exploding into things – unending births of beauty all around. We came upon the thought to name each one of them, so they’ll remain. Out of a breath or simply out of joy, a tree, a stone, a lake would born. The flowers resonated with a smile; the leaves with hands; the birds with our arms. But then we all decided to breathe out a larger thing, a thing we could not reach within our arms. The sea – we called that beauty breath. That sea would shine out all our dreams. But something unknown happened – a transposition of our world. The sea descended and became a round compacted world comprising our visions, yet transformed, degraded into such a foreign frequency we could not touch. Most of us jumped down to see their alter–being. Forced to dissect their pure heart in slices by strings of unmatched roughness, our brothers hoped to rescue their dreams. But there they remained, unable to return.  And so we learned to mourn in our joyful world. We miss them, oh, so much! In rainbow waves we sent more love until we learned that some of them forgot the vivid bright sweet colors we used to bring to life. Their hearts in grays of unknown sadness, the world they named in black and white, remembered not our home. Thus illness started to build walls between us all. They couldn’t dream without a sore, we couldn’t dream their rescue anymore. Their dreams created death and pain, names we had to learn up here, too, in our dying home.

That’s why I breathe out maybe one of the last of my dreams. I breathe to dream they’re bringing home that world. I breathe for our restoration, I breathe for our reunited heart, the heart that dreams the beauty they forgot, the pure heart, the mother of us all.

This was the story of the unborn child in you, in me, in all of us. It is the Soul of Life. The source of hope and happiness, of dreams, a fountain of all things. And goodness, kindness, love and beauty are there too, beyond the words, the thoughts, beyond control.

 I wrote the story above earlier today not knowing what to do with it. I didn’t feel like publishing it. So I went to the park, and watched the naked trees and their splendors on the ground, the leaves in search for their seed.

When I returned, I stumbled upon an article that mentioned the documentary The Great Hack. I didn’t know what was about, but felt an immediate impulse to watch it. And so I did. The story has now a different meaning to me.

Thank you for reading. ❤

Image from Pixabay