Dreamer Syndrome
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We sad few pontificators,
beneficiaries of lives past,
our own not yet lived,
are squalid in our wasted youth.
Too much to think about.
Too many experienced and potential unsatisfactory outcomes;
Hardly enough agency to do anything about anything.
Nostalgia for five minutes ago,
scars of memories shrouded in crystal, as though preserved;
visions of a perfect future.
Dreams.
Soaring through our minds as though spreading their wings for the first time.
Yet each dream clings to its host’s gray matter
like a sordid strata of gossamer sinews,
and the growing parasite snakes through the structure.
Feeding on tender, nurtured hopes.
Dashing earnest desires, fed to them through their hypothalamus.
The harrowing syndrome of the generation
trapped between utopia and death,
which reverses the polarity between which of the two
they’d prefer to fantasize, experience, consume, day by day.
Hour by hour.
Seconds take several weeks to process now.
The pulsing temporal construct does little for us
but drive the insignificance of our reality as sentient anomalies
deep into our frontal lobes.
But you manage pull yourself to a stop, a penultimate moment to think.
A thought. An emotion. They synthesize a new, different dream. It sings, slowly, but surely -
your desires are possible.
And if that song rings true, your existence as an imperfect cosmological subject
should serve to scream in your face that
the ambivalent nature of the laws of the universe
means no one can stop us;
we’ll keep dreaming.
Keep dreaming.
Dreaming.
Not a parasite, but a beast, now
feed your beast, or die.
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