My mother taught me the ability to dream, to live inside the insulation of an imagined construct. Aside from the escape, it's worthless in this day and age. This day and yesterday it's felt like something, a core part of a thought I needed has fled. I told my brother something feels like its missing, he said something along the lines of welcome to the club.
Once in awhile I worry I'm still flitting in and out of my mother's fantasies. And when, in, trapped. That I never actually escaped. That my story of myself is a fiction only in my own mind, the one given to me that is, not the one I'm trying to write. My mind, a splintered cell from all the others belonging to the same, a few splits away from the woman whose womb I resided inside of back when she was inside her own mother's womb.
All the way back that far. I was an egg in 1957.
I had a dream a few nights ago that I helped make a baby boy of my own and he had deep dark eyes and faint blonde hair and I held him and I felt warmth wash onto me and I cried saying this is the happiest I've ever been in my life.
