What happens to the dreams and callings we let lapse?
The ones we walk away from?
What do they do once we’ve turned our backs?
Do they go on and live in someone else’s mind?
Or do they pause,
And wait…
For you to, maybe, rewind?
These streets, so familiar.
Yet so foreign too.
Like a dream I intuitively know…
But can’t quite put my finger on.
Like…déjà vu…
Drummer tapping a beat
In his suit before work.
The creative and corporate merging in a New York autumn splendor.
Would I have found my lost artist here?
Or would the distraction of chasing brownstones have blinded me?
Speakeasies and old bookstores awaken my muse.
Her endless imagination,
Captivated by charming cafes and cozy coffees…
A place that’s ignited the flames of the greats.
Yet, I found her by the beach.
The waves crashing.
The sirens’ song.
So, who is it that dreams as golden leaves fall on cobblestones?
What of her?
Perhaps she joins me in shadow.
Perhaps we collect these dream shadows as we go.
Dancing along beside us in wonder,
Joining layered holograms of past and present.
Perhaps each shadow grows stronger
As we near its point of origin
And the memories marinate.
The same, but also changed.
Realizing it is still there.
A part of your heart.
Beautifully braided with the other dream shadows.
Evolving in the walk.
The dance.
Every step along these well-trodden streets.
(Written walking through the Village and Washington Square Park, back in New York City for the first time in many years…)
Soliloquy on Imperfectionism 