And Back Again

Looking at the landscape photos I took of home, longingly, all teary-eyed, I had to remind myself that the beauty of it – the endless silence, the isolation from common chaos – did not include the key to growing stronger or getting farther. As much as I’d like to be back there right this second, feeling the breeze, getting lost in an impossible amount of field and forest, it does not see me through my troubles to the other side. That same land was, at one time, limited and frustrating.

Besides, I can go back there for a visit or a walk whenever I have the chance. For right now, in this period, it’s still all there.

And here I am. My brain has been firing a bit more brightly, as of late. In between bounces of the tennis ball, before my serve, rubber soles rolling over the court, there is a simple voice-over accompanying my view of the net’s other side:

Dream.

Bounce, catch. Bounce, catch. Dream.

I’m sitting on the couch, trying to explain to My Guy that I don’t know what makes my brain switch sides, but that I want to stay this person for as long as I can, because I’m happier when I’m in this mind frame

Dream.

It seems that the decisions I make, the answers I give and the things I weigh – they alternate. They follow my mood or my mood follows them and it’s like two separate circuits inside that can never be running simultaneously. One mode has more energy, the other one is much harder to offend. One is more creative, the other is stubborn.

The last time I sat down to write was months ago, over half a year, when I was unable to sleep. I wrote about two pages that rambled on in conversation with myself as if there were two people talking. The screen was blinding, I was strung out, and it was short-lived. I can’t remember where I ended up in theory but the passage was unsaved, abandoned the moment sleep caught up with me. I disapproved of the material’s quality and, in retrospect, woke up the next day feeling as though I had switched over to a simpler, more sedated self.

My dreams are like stale peeps, I thought, returning My Guy’s serve. I don’t always think while I’m actively focused on something else. A few puddles on the court, a crack running down the center, new shoes getting old fast and stale peeps. Stale peeps floating in the pool next to us, on the other side of the fence, closed for the season.

Man, that’s shit. ‘Stale peeps’ is all you got? Backhand. In, over, forehand. Out.

Turn over a peep and you might win a prize.

It made sense, though. Not everyone would still care for them, these dreams that have been kicking around. I’ve had a few of em for a while, now. But suddenly, they seem new. A little different. Remembered.

One thing that I, personally, know about stale peeps – and I thought this with confidence as the point drove home with my ball – is that they’re awfully damn good.

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