just some prose about a dream

My house will have at least one window on the ceiling. I don’t care if you call it a skylight or a moonlight but my house will have one. It will be above my bed. That way, when I am laying in bed, I can look at the stars. I can watch the moon at midnight and watch the rain fall above me. I will be able to wake up with the sun in the morning and see the clouds above me when I lay down. I can imagine that I am laying outside in the grass or in the mud or on the dirt underneath the same sky as everybody else. I can imagine that I never had to settle into that house but spent my life wherever I wanted, leaving nobody to worry about me, leaving me nobody to worry about, amongst the dirt and atmosphere.

The window in the roof will be positioned so that I can see other things besides the sun and the moon or the clouds and the sky. I will be able to peek out at a tall, old tree and just lay beneath it. I will know those branches on that tree well, every curve and fork from the trunk that I watch clatter in the wind, straighten out in the rain and bloom in time to warmth. I will watch as the tree slowly lets go of every one of its leaves. I will dream there, underneath that window.  I wonder, will the tree and sky look down on us and wonder what passion for something other than survival of itself feels like?

But even though I made such a fuss about that hole in the roof, I will not spend my entire life beneath this window. I refuse to be trapped inside that house, dreaming through a bit of glass. I will live to feel the wind on my face and the ground beneath my feet. I will feel the lives of others at my fingertips and the heart of god inside me. Inside all of us. Around me. All around me.



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