A Sepsis of Wishes

I have these dreams:

— to create little eco-village artist retreat in the mountains of New Mexico 

— to produce my play

— to finish my play

— to make a living selling my stories

— to produce audio books, and… and…

They form delicate little glass balls filled with hyper-detailed scenes of my desire.

These little ornaments get packed safely away in the dusty attic of my mind, since they’re always in the way when I’m trying to get the laundry done or do the exercise required to keep the body in working order or grocery shopping or—

So they collect there in the mind’s attic, and sometimes they give off the eerie glow of night lights, guiding the way to the toilet from the bedroom at 4AM.

But sometimes they sprout spikes, and like a pile of puffer fish they roll down the stairs into the conscious living room of my mind and the sheer number of these desires, their incompleteness, the years they have patiently waited for a break in the laundry and the sadness and the errands overwhelms the space.

One or two poke into each other, oozing. Their spikes prickle me, and I take in the leaking poison until I develop a sepsis of wishes.

The rushing demands of the world are relentless. The egos of small men demand an economy in which we all live as bonded serfs in their AI panopticon, unable to rest for fear of unreasonably rising rent or medical bills or car bills or —

Some days I feel all I can do is tread sewage ‘till I drown or my blood turns against me, poisoned by my own unrealizable dreams.