Compass of Dreams
Sometimes we return to the dream, not because it’s true, but because it’s the only thing that ever made us feel real.
He woke wide in the darkest hours
Of the night.
Sleeplessness was back.
But not the crushing kind—
not anymore.
Just a hum under the surface.
Not like May,
not like June—
when he’d wake
heart sprinting
palms trembling
crying quietly into the carpet
praying for
peace
just peace
please
And sometimes it came.
Eventually.
Through meds.
Or maybe
Just
Her.
She—
not a cure,
but a calming.
A truth he stopped denying.
When had been younger,
California was the spell.
The myth.
Sun-kissed salvation.
TV dreams.
Escape hatch.
He made the mistake of going.
And once he lived it.
Found it wasn’t myth—
wasn’t home either.
So, he left,
thinking it righteous.
Giving.
Service.
Sacrifice.
What he didn’t realize:
That he was trading his last
dream-symbol.
The last carrot
In a life of sticks.
But then, her.
She rose in the east of his soul
like the sun he thought he’d lost.
Not new, but reborn.
The feelings—
years-old but unspoken—
rushed in like surf.
An unstoppable tide.
Because he was loved.
Known.
Still wanted.
Maybe.
She became
the new myth.
The better one.
She became his muse.
His California.
Still shining
even if he never
touched the shore again.
#poetry #confession #osxs #100daystooffset #writing
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Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
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