Dream Life

                                        I guess you could call me broken, says one. I'm still lonely, says another, but now I can name it with a song. In my poem, says another, I can forget I am forgotten. Now I understand being misunderstood, says another. And another says, in a bold, undeniable voice of power, I won't step down from myself again. And they are beautiful, beautiful, standing one by one at the mic where they have come forth at last from behind the curtain.

                                     I remember sitting on the swing in our backyard when i was eight years old, thinking about how strange it was that i wouldn't remember that exact moment in a few months. Eleven years later & perhaps the irony of it all is how clear that memory still is for me. i think about it often not sitting on the swing but just the messiness of memories and how at any given time, we can exist in a thousand different places just by brushing up against other lives. it's a scary and beautiful thing, don't you think? there are things we have said and done that are so easily forgotten, but somewhere, in some mind, they are remembered. i wonder about all the things i am. how in some stories i may be the conflict and in others, the resolution. how i might be nothing more than the girl who ordered a flat white with one sugar but even still, i exist outside of this body and...