typing to yet another rhythm

Imagination is a white horse made out of clouds.
You think you're going far but all you do is fall back on your ass,
waking up into a world, again and again, that is too dull,
too real for you to find any purchase, any solace, any kinship, any other way.
Escapism is not cowardice, not a drug, not a fault,
it is how you can breathe when even the air coalesces into bars to hold you in.
Daydreams are the crouch that helps you walk, one more step, one more mile, one more day.
It is not how you thrive maybe, but it is how you survive for the lack of anything else.

Knowing what is good for you prevents you from discovering what might be great for you
because the chasm is too deep and if you stray too far in your adventures
you may find yourself at the bottom with broken wings.
Beauty is a drug that numbs the pain, the ointment soothing the wounds
you keep sustaining without ever knowing why.

No matter what life you live there is always something you're going to miss.
There is always a choice you'll be too aware that you made, make,
over and over with every breathe and every kiss that does not happen
and every night you sleep on your own bed,
with every curse that you don't utter and every scream you hold in,
every punch you do not throw and smile, sympathize and nod,
every time you hide behind your own fears because
they are there for a reason and it's the survival instinct.
With every sleepless hour that you feel the poison of stress
and nerves and anxiety dripping down your throat,
you know it is another choice and there is only one right way to handle things
but you never are sure if too many right choices get together to form one big wrong.
You lose yourself chasing one ideal after another, like chasing a butterfly
that was supposed to make you happy but in the end
it's another insect that will fade when captured and dead.
So you knowingly make wrong choices just to break the chain.
Then others get involved and things get complicated and you get hurt.
You can't wear a diving suit and go through life without getting wet.
It's messy, it cuts, you bleed, you get better and forget how bad it was
until something comes up that is worse,
but you act brave and carry on because there's not much else to do.

You watch that white horse and at a moment's weakness
you find yourself again jumping on his back.
Then you stay all day in bed imagining a memory that never happened
as if it was the only truth.
You imagine so hard, seeing every detail, every taste, every word and sound
and how it almost makes you feel,
but in the end it leaves you sweaty and dissatisfied with a horrible sense of loss.
How many times can you please yourself imagining a stranger's hand
until you lose all self esteem and self respect?
How many times you feel guilty for not being grateful enough for all that you do have?

We tell ourselves we have the power to change the world
but we don't really want it changed,
we only want another one on the side just in case we screw this one up.

And then you wash your face, you brush your hair,
you put your game face on and you are out the door
because horses and clouds and dreams and eyes like the sky before a rainstorm
and legs that go for a mile and books and all the fairy tales written and spoken
and the possibilities and the stories that nobody has come up with yet
will be there when you stop to breathe next time you have the time.
You just need to keep going until then.
Keep going until then.
Just keep going.