Rocks and Dreams

When you’re little, the future's far way; the dreams are vague, unspecific. You don’t know what you want because you don’t know what it looks like, what it tastes like. You want a future, but you don't know which combination of things it will be.

From there, it's trial and error. It's going into a thick forest and checking under every rock, every log, and every bed of flowers that could be hiding that little thing that makes the forest worth it, moments of fleeting happiness like scents guiding you to the prize.

Then you get older, and the hunt gets more frenzied: what if you don't find it, happiness? What if it's not there? Because you start turning over rocks and not liking what you find, or liking it but needing more or, worse, getting a peek of something you like underneath a rock that’s excruciatingly difficult to move, and the effort just wears you out until you sit down, defeated, broken.

But it's not all digging and breaking down and digging again, seeing the scrapes on your knuckles and the dirt under your fingernails. Sometimes it's looking at the rock and just knowing that it's there, holding onto something wonderful like it's saving it just for you, and then stopping. Breathing. Stretching. Reaching up for the skies and letting the leaves turn the wind into music.