Some say I’m a dreamer…

But I think that dreaming is the way that my soul feels like it has wings. They are big, white, soft; angel-like. They have the most intricate pattern, to match the intricate and delicate cargo it is carrying. They are never wavering and won’t fall or let the dream die. As it doesn’t exist in the soul’s make-up, the wings can’t fail. They will carry the dream as far as the dreams will go.

I’ve made the mistakes of taking dreams and making them plans. Plans for high faucets and low sinks. Plans for secrets becoming realities… in five years. Plans for living spaces, the perfect kind, that you live happily every after in. Plans to grow old, live next door, and walk out and pick up my newspaper and wave hello to a person I’ve loved like family for the 28th year. Every time, these plans include other people. I think that’s the problem with turning dreams into plans; depending on others. This part might not be in my soul’s make-up.

It might be my wonderfully overly independent mother that trained me to be this way. I don’t think I can share the dreams that give my soul wings with another person, not right now. It make be selfish, unloving, and closed-off, but it is also who I am. I dream of living happily ever after. I wonder if this is available for me. I wonder if there really is only a limit to how many loves of you life you can have, and if I hit mine before I even started. I dream of dating and marrying the perfect man, he who makes me smile, warms my heart, and lets my soul fly. Yet when I consider making these dreams into realities I lose something, something I can’t quite pin-point, but it’s lost. The Righteous Brothers call it ‘that lovin’ feeling’. I’ll agree with you there, it has something to do with love. I can feel myself loving the person whole-heartedly, and yet, this love is not enough. Once the reality crushes the dream, the dream stops flying. My soul is trapped, the wings damage, a slightly dirtied and used version of the perfectly gleamed white-self it used to be. They flutter at an un-even pace, tiring the soul until it is faced with death. Does the soul die within the boundaries of love, or does it grow? Are certain souls made for this type of growth and others not?

I was born ready for marriage. I always knew I wanted it, and still do. I dream of waking up to the same person everyday… but for me, what happens when this dream becomes a reality? Can my soul handle the pressures that boundaries provide? I’ve always dreamt it to be true…

Some say that I’m a dreamer, and that dreaming is bad. That I operate in an alter-overly optimistic-reality. But I have news for you, I’m going to keep on dreamin’. I going to keep on giving my soul the wings it needs to fly, until it finds a soul free enough to keep up and fly with it.