The death of the dream, and the birth of the reality.
I sat back, head parallel to the sky. The canopy of trees was illuminated; each leaf with a veined sheen, fluttering softly. The green brighter, greener than I can remember since I was a child, holding a butterfly, wings gathering and separating in nature's pulse. The clouds, woven and unwoven, strands and sinews obvious, became obsolete. They drifted into the blue, into the gradient sky. I have spent so many minutes of my life wishing for things I did not believe that I could have. Stability, fame, acclaim. Successful relationships. Siblings. The sense of inner peace that I've convinced myself others manage to possess, even without the influence of psychoactive substances or inherited wealth. A smaller waist, to round out my foolish with shallowness. And I have fostered so many illusions and excuses. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe when I feel better. If I ever feel better. Some time, when the therapy works, when the fights are not so loud, when the drugs kick in. When the house is c...