Tuesday, December 10, 2013


Years, years, years ago I wanted.

But my dreams seemed utterly impossible, hopeless, futile.  Because no matter what I did, everything stayed so out of reach.

"I will die alone, it will never work, I'll never be... " I'd pronounce to someone trained to share a room with despair and anger.

"You can't write the end of the book until you get there," he'd answer.

Somehow, dreams slowly became my daily life.  I could see impossible wasn't.

I mean some things were.  I would never get a chance to be James Bond.  I suspect many people got disappointed by that dashed hope.

But the dream of a home, of a love, of a family, of an art, of a word, of a poem, of a story, of an eye, of some peace, of powerful prayer, of good food, of better health... of hands no longer holding a cigarette...

I couldn't see them at the beginning.  I just had to look and not see the end.