Once upon a now

My dreams are collages of feelings stirred up in images that often make very little sense when reiterated word for word, scene for scene.  Still, they are powerful.  Primal exhibitions of the me who lives inside the body that defines me to the world.

The world has expectations.  It looks at me and sees pretty much what it expects.  Any real deviance from that would raise a ruckus few of us are up to surviving.  Getting older only lengthens the distance between what is and what should be.

People have certain expectations they want to meet before they reach the jumping off place.  Inheritances to pile up.  Memories to tweak.  Fears to subdue.  These things are soul killers.  If they happen naturally then I think they are great.  Otherwise they are like putting make up on a pig and trying to pass it off as human.

I remember a picture from my toddler days where someone was shaving a pig in a barber chair.  I found it terrifying. 

That little girl still lives inside of me, terrified of the horrible facades surrounding me, wondering how others can fail to see what is right there shimmering between reality and what is.