Confessions of a Visionary Realist

The shades between reality and dreaming are very clear to me. The dim and dull variations of paper work and rejection, and the harrowing, vibrant, extraordinary sparks of love. I was never clear on my own perceptions of love. Until I found that in my spare time of living I often wished I was dreaming. The hands that feed me give off a healthy intention. A love so delicate as baby’s breath in spring and baby’s first Christmas in content. 
The hands that hold me are a glass home. So beautiful and tender. Sharp to cut me if I hiss my tongue too quickly or squeeze too firm. They are working hands. Constantly moving although keeping at a steady pace. Thus the hands of time count the dismemberment; The disengagement; The skin to skin divorce between mine and it. 

    Inside of my glass house are veins. Wires if you will. That pull and tug the ways of the heart. Often times I feel as though we share an artery. For whenever sadness arises we both wilt in heartbreak. Nevertheless; A glass house has a glass heart. And though I hold it dearly to me it is never truly mine to keep for without it. You cannot live to tell the story of past safe keepings. You cannot move on. 

I accept my plunder into this field of broken glass. Because holding a heart so magnificent as time works it’s way around means the world to me. My little glass house has become a temporary home. A home with hollow eyes, a real heartbeat, and a green flicker of envy for the one who figures out how to make a glass house into brick. 

Until the hands of time become withered. I will stay. Letting the feeling of lipstick stained lips decay. Through my skin it will go and only I will know. That you were. Are. And always will be. Mine 

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Little Life LessonsĀ 

I never realized how fast the world moves until it felt like mine had stopped. People still watered their plants and cars drove past at light speed. I however, felt short of breath. As though the wind was being sucked from my lungs into some void of a vacuum cleaner. I heard nothing but the endless drone of my subconscious. Ranting and raving about someone who’s affection would kill me. I felt vulnerable. As though I had given up something I never had. Granted I did lose something. Something I can never get back, but it was more of the feeling of nostalgia that kept me walking. Past candy colored houses that reminded me of the days when I would walk with my mother. The sunset bringing warmth on those crisp afternoons. I spoke of them on those days. Those sweet happy days. I long for a love that gives me the same happiness as those walks. The kind that isn’t too overwhelming and where words drip freely. The sun beating heavy and the smiles light. I know I’ve messed up. Deeply, truly, and full of no regret. If I had the chance to change the course of time. I would not. Even though I felt like the chains of concrete were dragging me down, it brought me back to the people who I so greatly need to keep around. Until I find a love that is real, I will always have these people. These places. And the nostalgic thoughts to sing me to sleep. 

A Dime Piece

What is a dime to you? A tax on food, a lucky surprise in the parking lot, or absolutely worthless. Most people would say worthless. It’s not a shiny quarter, nor a legendary penny; However, it is one of the most important creations to this day. It is diverse. A dime contributes to society more than some humans do.

Our society is based on acceptance through worth. Worth being gained through what you wear, your career, and what you post on social media. The backbone of these things is money. Dollar bills, quarters, and even dimes. Money can buy you a lot of things, but it can also cost you a kind heart with a soul. It can make people into metal craving monsters. Changing the birds eye view into a near-sided vision. Only seeing the big picture. Not what goes into it, and surely not the hustle behind it. This process is called judgement. We as people are made to judge; It is how we make our most worthwhile decisions in life. What we fail to see sometimes is the backstory behind our own perceptions.

Yesterday you went to a food truck. A parking lot paradise of tacos and grease. On your way to place an order you found a dime in the parking lot. No big deal right? You do manage to notice that the people behind the counter are filthy. “Do they not know how to shower?” is your first thought. Your second stems from the way they roll their R’s; Their language is not your own.”These damn immigrants are getting paid better than we do. Illegal no doubt”. You glance at the tip jar, which is sparse as a desert, and make your way out. Rolling your eyes as you enjoy their customs. What you failed to see was the desperation in their eyes. You see, the filth was from their lack of electricity; The food truck business doesn’t exactly pay bills. They used to work side jobs, but now that they’re U.S citizens they must work on their own. The accent making them feared in the workplace. They were a dime short on the electricity bill.

A woman in a bra dancing for money. “She’s a whore. She obviously can’t get it from her husband. I mean look at her. Practically begging”This young woman went to college. She has a degree in social work, and makes a paycheck. She also has a family and self worth. Working the pole in smoke lounges is nothing but a nuisance; However, it seems that horny headass men pay for mindless entertainment. The drunken slurs meaning nothing compared to how those dollars and dimes will put her kid through school, so she acts. Twirling, begging, and degrading herself on the outside. Being a proud, intelligent individual on the inside.

People who hustle for a greater good are simply underappreciated. Just like a dime hidden under a mattress. People who turn their backs at those in need, speak only from the eye, and wander this earth just for the finance are way too romanticized. That 3 centimeter dime is doing more for them than you. Just let that sink in.