i allow myself to think about just how badly i want to be a writer.
i release my thoughts just enough so that they can graze the surface of my inmost pool of dreams.
and then i have to stop myself,
because the dream is bigger than i can fathom -- this i know.
i could potentially drown in all the chaos and depth and ambiguity that resides there.
and to let my heart go there in my mind, almost always brings my eyes to well up out
of both inspiration and fear that perhaps i won't achieve such a dream.
to say that one wants to be an artist is to face the eyebrow raisers, reality checkers, chuckle laughers of listeners who don't quite understand because they're smart and chase tangibility --
leaving the artist petrified, thought exhilarated just the same, to take a leap or faith, to sing that silly song of a lifestyle that not all take part in.
my professor says that the state of being in wonder and in terror is called the sublime.
i learned this when studying edgar allen poe this week.
and so i now know that some dreams are fleeting, while others are the epitome of the sublime.
it happens most when the sky is tinted yellow in the evening,
or when the blue hues of 6:30 am creep through my translucent blinds.
it happens when a certain symphony comes through my headphones,
or when i'll over hear a conversation and someone says a word--a single word--
and my mind fabricates an entire dialogue between two non-existent beings.
or--or, it happens when i look around me, and everything is quiet,
and i remember that writers have quiet libraries of their own, stored up within their heart...
...just waiting to be explored.