without residual unruly regret.

there seems a cultural bestseller trend in the soft sciences that indicates i might accelerate this process of favorable foward motion, of future dream casting, that i might speed and direct the forceful forehead palm plants of fulfillment. i must simply pull down the damned dream, define it, askingly cast it into existence. a kind of positivism. if you build it, they will come. hmmmm. but heck, i don’t know my dreams enough to grab hold and say this one. though the closest thing to which i am a true expert is on myself. i know that my expertise is lacking, even filled with wrong thinking and the nightmarish mental meanderings shaped by my shoulds and the deforming embracing of words and habits not my own. my expertise is clichedly muddied by should haves, would haves, could haves. the skittish dreams, like smoothered stars in the daylight, have been lost in the goods of and plethora of SHOULD ofs. there are a lot of goods. because of the lost skittish nature, the light smoothered stars, i cannot sneak upon or know my own dreams and visions directly. can i fully know my own mind? know what is best? what if my reasoning is actually irrational? for that matter, am i even truly a descrete entity that can be defined outside of other? what of my agency or if i ask for the wrong thing, the untrue thing, for which i am not wired? these dreams or at least my capacity to trust in them are so freakingly seriously skittish to the direct, hungry, or aggressive. i try to slide up to the unsleep driven dreams, my head turned just so, and i slide my groping hand up into the peripherial perception of these spaces filled with my dreamscapes and castings.

i am frightened at how my groping hands must release their current contents to touch these scaped castings. i am terrified to release my microforest and hermitage — the crunch below my footfall as my gait swings out long upon the graveled lane, the meadowed and leaf foddered spaces in which i lay as the trees’ canopies sing in whispered breaths, the hawks’ soar stirs the kiss of wind upon my spring warmed cheeks and closed lids, the tendrils of grass caught hair stir gently cascading the curve of chin, the my mineral painted walls remain bare only to hold the entering and ebbing day’s light in an almost wholy glassed hermit shelter. it’s where my pup found me riding my red mulching bladed machine one Sunday taxed (an April 15) morning. i am terrified of leaving my corner of the forest for the barren dust ridden high plains of academia. i am terrified of leaving a space, the only space where i’ve so fully attached, its calling not just home, but womb. birthing is such a bitch!

may i lay my hand to these scape castings that are true to who i am. may i pull ones down that brim with meaningful purpose. may the things released be so without residual unruly regret.