When I look up at the sliver of a sliver new moon rising over the mountains. When I see its reflection dancing in the mirror. When the mud hens give me that look with their outrageously absurd face. It doesn’t feel so crazy an idea. What is crazy? There’s no such thing, there is just normal and abnormal. Statistics and majorities. The world tries to call me weird, and that’s fine with me. I would tend to agree with them, the truth is I am unusual. But the world does some very bizarre things too. There was a time, for thousands of years no doubt, where left-handed kids were thought to be simply obstinate. We used to tie children’s left hand behind their backs and make them write “the right way”. It sometimes makes me chuckle a bit, at the silliness of it all. There is no sense in thinking in absolutes like that. Right and wrong are equally illusionary. So am I wrong to think these thoughts? How could I be?
Here’s a secret that no one knows. I used to dream of an angel, Victoria. She would come visit at night as the world dissolved away, watching over me. I remember her wings, feathers long and white. Her face, always obscured, by haze or vale. She was secretive and sly, with a little smile, confident and enigmatic. Not a being one takes lightly. There was no singers or harps, just a quiet attendance. She was my focus, my talisman, and it was thoughts of her I used to still a ever flowing mind.
I tried so hard to believe my dreams were real. I tried so hard to believe my own lie. Some lies feel oh so good. Lies of caring and friendship, peace and grace. I miss her lies, or are they my lies? It doesn’t matter, she hasn’t visited in so long now. But there were others that took her place. Or did they? Maybe it was always her, just in a different guise. No matter, they have all fled, others occupy my twilight hour. Do I wait for her return? Should I call for the missing? A congregation of dreams. A counsel of fragments. What tune will we sing?