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 clean. When there is nothing, but everything, left - time. 

I'm not going to wax poetic about what the pandemic has meant to me, or how it upended my life. It's massively trite at this point. It's a disservice to anyone who has lost someone. I'm tired of the rhetoric that tells us such a time is ripe for reinvention. That disconnect is a reset. That's not why any of this happened.

The lake was clear to the bottom, until it wasn't any longer. Bowed branches loomed and tangled grass slapped at my feet. Bass traveled to my fingertips and shimmied away. I swam, seeking the deep. I looked back and my love was meters and meters away, and I went back. I retrieved him. And I kicked my legs until I took us out even further. 

When all of this started, the disembodied voice told me to just jump. When there is nothing left to hold, just jump - off of the wall into the water, off of the bullshit into the truth. When it no longer feeds you, open your mouth and eat the fresh air.