weepingwillow

So this space in which I sit is an archive.

An archive of the dreams I have had and continue to have and those that have faded.

Material things that are the tools for my creative imagination to use.

There are a thousand beautiful images in my head that I will try and will have tried to put together in the physical world.

No one will sit here after my death and see the masterpiece in my head. They will see the disjointed half-finished remains of too much money spent and insufficient energy to make it a realization. A waste.

The paint will eventually spoil the thread will disintegrate and the beads will be scattered and lost.

Much like my mind.

My temporary archive is someone's future chore.

What a waste.

What a sorrow.

In my next life, I would like to be born free of the walls I cannot climb and water I cannot swim.

In my next life, I would like to be free of the walls I wish to leap from and the water I want to become still with.

When you look at the remains of my archive when I am gone. Keep in mind the dreams they once were to me. Then give them to someone who will make them a reality.

Stormey