lost in a day dream

Lost in a Day Dream He sits upon his terrace, lost in a day dream, of violet moons and lavender stars and a grass so green that you was swear that it was hand painted every sunrise by an elderly man with a cigar in his mouth and a head full of smoke, blade by blade and stroke by stroke. Deer graze off in the distance ever so careful not to ruin this masterpiece, but just to take a little bit with them on their journey. This man just like the deer isn’t plagued by the day’s stresses or its funny inquires because he is elevated on his terrace, figuratively miles above where he should be, lost in a daydream. Melted in a chair made of wicker, with a table stand to match, he sits with some wine of his time in his left hand, while his right gets a well-deserved rest. The stress of the office inhibits his movements, but it’s not so much pain that the holy bush couldn’t cure. As he sits there and lets this magical carpet ride pulsate through his subconscious and then back into his conscious, he reminisces of days of old. Of days when he was young with a brilliant shine, living by an absolute truth, that you would call youth. As he contemplates his next move, he decides that a rendezvous with a lady friend might be in order. So as he goes to get his little black book and tickle the ivory buttons of his push button phone, he is startled. For he has no little black book or even a telephone for that matter, nothing of the sorts exists in this place. “Not to worry” he thinks to himself, he decides to read his favorite book of poetry by his fireplace, resting his body and soul in unison. And as he reaches for his copy of In the Clearing he finds nothing, no book or even a real fireplace, just of fake picture of one that hangs from the wall. As he looks around his apartment he sees nothing, except some hand me down furniture, and a couple of Christmas cards from years past. Now reveling in his hardships he realizes that he really hasn’t lived a day past the age of 22. That somewhere between the last night of drinking in college and the first day at the office he got lost. He has become every little kids nightmare, and most men’s reality, he got lost in the vast world of nothingness. That 9-5, working for the man, never having any really wealth, Except his 401k, nothingness. Now suicidal and the brink of destruction, his heart begins to beat with the fury of African war drums announcing a final battle that is about to occur. The sweat is draining from his face and he feels the vessels in his brain burst from all the pressure that has rushed to his head. He is confused and lost, now living in a nightmare, wondering how he got in the race of the rats in the first place. And as he stumbles over to the balcony, he gazes way down at the gray melancholy of the cement and wonders what would hurt more, Him smacking the pavement, or a life like this? Trapped in a balding, middle aged, don’t really give a shit about what or who I am body, for the rest of his horrible and lonesome life. And as he swings hi left and final leg over the balcony of his terrace, his heart begins to fall with the rest of his body. Now in his moment of truth, he realizes he mistakes, and recognizes his regrets. It’s not the jump he regrets, but the way he lead his adult life. He lost that brilliant shine you have when your young, that absolute truth that you live by when you are young at the heart, that some call youth. For when youth runs through your veins and gives your heart to energy to pump you are alive, not just merely living. Ands as he is about to meet his final feelings, ones of hate, despair, anger and regret…………………….. He awakens, bearing a cold sweat in the middle of English class, a freshman in every way. As he realizes that he has been given a second chance he bolts out of class, running just as far away as he can, searching for fun without a purpose. He hasn’t lost his brilliant shine yet and he will so everything he can to keep it now. And the next time he sits upon his terrace, lost in a day dream of a violet moon and lavender stars, he will not forget to shake the hand of the elderly man with a cigar in his mouth and a head full of smoke, who hand paints his grass, blade by blade and stroke by stroke.last year, Written March 18th, 2002 © on Mar 18 2002 12:44 PM PST   0 • 9