Where I have fallen into daydreams and fantasies parallel to the world I do not live in, it leaves me in such a stupor that I awaken from it with an unshakeable sadness. To fall and fall is to batter the corners of my mind until I slowly unfurl. The beckoning promises of dreams is enough to fool myself into different worlds of people I’ll never be, and it is like poisonous wine I forget is placed in front of me time then again.
It is the task of reaching for the next stopgap in my life filled with envy-lined vision. The dangling images so bizarrely lit behind my eyes are mirages dissipating from the first sip of water. They very little fade to nothing and imprint on my skull the shape of a bird in mid-flight. It’s like asking my body for a performance it can never give, embedding feathers in my throat, and dark sludge weakening the structure of my bones. To bend to the simple conclusions of molding the world in my image.
The third eye seeks wisdom but devolves to saccharine pleasure when it is starved. And much like every emotion poisoned by the well, the water of the mind fades to webs of flattened flowers. My brain becomes smooth by the promises I cannot keep to myself; my heart is too affected by hurt that it beats too rapidly and too slowly at the same time.
When I am done with my flights of fancy, I am plagued by the things I do not have. The greed of the mind is its criticism of imagination, to drip blood from the wand of the magician into the cruel mouth of mirth.