Arrival

Journal entries and scraps of paper on my desk swim in delusion. Scribbles of a mad Universe clutter the pages, how they feel like home. I ask myself how to recover the magic I've lost to reality, it's a cruel trick of the light, you see the mortgages and required hustle playbooks stack themselves in your line of sight, and it gets too hard to see the world you had painted for yourself before. Do you remember there was a time when everything was oil paints and fireworks, when life was not a straight line but a dance, an endless wave you were riding and you believed you had found the Answer?

Just because they don't dream in color doesn't mean you weren't right to.