The weekend is our mother and every weekend we dread is the discomfort of birth
severing us from her body. We shriek to be born into a narrowing world of wider loss.
There is daylight and an entire range of noises. It could only be the eldest of pain
way before the uninterested spirit stopped caring, and the heart had turned inconsolable.
I learned that as a child, my dream was everything to me. Adults must never forget
dreams. They must never raise a child without a dream, without this form of longing.
I’ve longed so much to touch flowers underneath the sea, taste the whitest snow,
and jump the highest water fall I can climb. I’ve had more dreams since, I believe
because I never stopped. I live inside my head with all the hours piling as I sit on a desk
moving about clumsily as if to reach within and embrace the mechanisms of my body.
There are narrower days ahead to look forward to, newer noises apart from our voices
and the things we do before finally sleeping. How the day ends is most important to me.