I want to Fly

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I raise my voice to the heavens,

Bring down your rope of hope,

send down your latter to climb,

I want to dream,

I want to fly.

This has been my current dilemma, my stop sign. And I have been standing there, at a crossroads, having to decide, this way to walk, this way to fly.

I choose to fly. Hopefully, I will be writing much more these days.

 

Always,

your bluebird

Dreams of the Ocean

I have 30 minutes to try to remember this dream- these dreams. These past two nights I have dreamt of water, the ocean, the shore. One where a group of us flew in by plane, through skyscrapers and city, into the flat horizon of the ocean. Upon landing, there it was, there I was, in my white sleeping gown again, ready to dive into the water. When in that, a wave the size of a large hand cloaked me, moutained over me, comforted me and then just like that, was swiftly gone. My friend, who was with me said, ” It does that from time to time.” And I in awe, turn to look at the vanished ocean turn into a small insignificant pond or puddle of water. But apparently, it does that. I left and turned away but before abandoning the shore, I gave a slight wink of an eye and a hand gesture that spoke without words but said to the puddle of water, “I’ll be back, I’ll be back to play.”

These bodies of water, these shores were playful, joyous and cheery. I couldn’t describe it another way. They were as if there were a child, a free child, wanting to play. Did I forget to mention the pair of black Pheobe birds and flight? The next dream the following day was slightly different.

I was on foot on the shore. It was daytime and all I remember were shark fins in the distance, penetrating the surface of the water and a couple, a distant couple, that I was acquainted with somehow. I sat there and again, the waves were playful. As if they were asking me to join it. The waves, like an outstretched arm ready to greet, stretched toward me asking me to take its hand. And the waves would reach me and envelope me with its playful joy and like that dragged back to its body vanishing before me once more. There I stood upon desolate sand and what was a sea but only its remains, a tiny puddle. But somehow I knew,  that it was pulling a prank, a joke on me and it is bound to return and come back as an ocean.

In neither of these dreams do I allow myself to be overjoyed, to be enveloped by the body of water. I refrain. I hold back, and I don’t know why. Do you?

I fancy the thought that my dreams are my counselors, an inner voice of the subconscious world. They can be teachers if we listen.

To Happiness

Hi.

It’s been a while and I felt like writing. Whenever I need help discerning things, I write. It is my therapy, my lifeboat from a sea of emotions. This pen and I, we will always be. I have so much to voice about and this pen and I,  have a long journey ahead of us with a long tail of our past we are learning to haul around and live with. This pen will be the only true relationship I will have with me my whole life through. However long or short. It is the extension of my voice and an extension of me. The best me I can be and I want to be the best me I can be.

As of late, I  have been trying to enjoy my life. You know… live it up, seize the day, suck in all the juice of the day. And I’ll tell you, lately I have.

I am singing like a song bird. I am using my voice. I am raising my own plants. Speaking up like never before and enjoying my solitude. I love being a barista and making coffee. I love Los Angeles, the sun, my family, my people. I couldn’t ask for more. So yeah, its been too nice to be blue or cloudy lately.  I almost feel like a transformation of self… Almost like a metamorphoses of sorts. I feel myself transforming. Is that strange?

I think I have found and ending to my book… You see, I only write and have only written because I have been in pain, in sorrow. But you see why be in a lifeboat when I can swim in the sea? why walk when I can fly? why write, when I can sing? why live in a cacoon when I can be a butterfly with wings?

My voice is my instrument. It would be foolish of me to waste it. Even if it means failing. I know how to loose. I’ve lost so much already.  So I’d rather loose for something I am passionate about than to loose to something I don’t care for. This life is to be lived, to enjoy.  And how they say, “Tenemos que chupar el jugo del dia,” or “We need to suck the juice of the day, ” like the honeybee or the hummingbird.

So even if it means slaving away and living humbly. Making a living as a barista counting pennies and stretching money,  If I am happy, that is all that matters. The best adventures I have had been when I was penniless.

So let’s do it! let’s be happy. Here is to happiness and to our pursuits.

Cheers!

 

yours truly,

 

bluebird

 

 

 

Grandfather’s Clock Tower

Hello Ladies and gents,

I thought it fine time to do some revision on a very old poem. Any comments or thoughts are appreciated. Here goes nothing…

 

Grandfather’s clock,

from births hour,

sings tick-tock.

 

Tick-tock,

Tick-tock,

her heart beats

for Neverland,

strikes the first hour.

 

Tick-Tock,

Tick-Tock, and

she dreams of flight,

and of life’s magical delights

strikes the third hour.

 

Tick-Tock,

Tick-Tock,

there is peter pan’s

crocodile, and

she swallows an alarm clock,

and pauses time,

on lovers rhymes-

strikes the sixth hour.

 

Tick-Tock

Tick-Tock

Big-Ben’s Clock Tower

her rhythm, grows fonder

but Peter Pan’s pixie dust,

collects on grandfather’s

old tower clock-

strikes the 9th hour.

 

And on the 12th hour

Neverland, never comes

her heart beat stops

and the grandfather’s clock

gears, rust.

 

Much love, always.

 

your very own,

bluebird