The Dreamer

To find the heart of the dreamer, one has to breathe the mist filled air, letting the clean wash away the darkest of thoughts. To dream is to have the sense of something larger than the mind. Far too often, the darkness wins and the ideas of the dreamer are lost to the thoughtless abyss. Dreamers believe to their hearts content, to see the smallest waves of peace in the storm. How different the lives of everyone seeking shelter as the thunder and lightening echoes the sky.

How to be at peace when a dreamer stands in the eye of the storm, hair whipping and trashing against the wind. To see the blissful fall yellowed leaves fall from the tree at such great heights. How peaceful those leaves fall, the thought runs. How peaceful the world looks to a hummingbird. Their wings vibrating as they fly from flower to flower. The hummingbird is a dreamer in itself. The pacing back and forth fighting to sustain a flower for themselves to allow them to survive in a world, but never being able to stay in one spot for long.

To dream is to seek content. Content is to seek peace. Staring at the moon in the starlit sky, whispering thoughts one would never hear; the secrets shared by the blades of grass under form, the stars in their blinking reassurance, the breath one shared to speak these secrets.

Curled up in a blanket, watching the highway from the distance, the sounds lulling one to drift. The chest aches as the thoughts start to swim, the ideas spilling over one another and the moment of peace fading as the world caves in around oneself. The rope seeming a bit too far out of reach, the feeling of helplessness sinking into ones chest. The storm that once brought them peace, thumbs down around them, the sense overwhelming their thoughts; their senses. The heart races fear that it is to burst from ones chest, the panic setting their mind into a rollercoaster in attempts to figure which way is up and down, left and right.

Peace is an aching feeling. Very rare to feel. Even as the storm settles, the shaking of fingers states that it is too far out of reach to touch peace; to be the leaf falling from trees at a height. But being a hummingbird is never bad. To control ones idea of peace is to adapt. Adapt to the world, adapt to the ideas that this storm only lasts for so long. To be a hummingbird is to find peace even while running around.

The flutter is wings is the heart starting to slow, starting to pick oneself up. To hide away from the storm is not to give up, but to find the peace to rush out again, to find the flower to call mine.

Sitting, huddled from the cold, peace can be watched even if it is not felt one ones chest. The ache will settle and breathing will be normal in time. To dream of peace is no different than finding it in oneself; in others.

Speak to the moon, let the stars hear the cries and the secrets for they are kept in their blaze. Lift ones eyes and seek the peace once felt, know it in ones chest that it is obtainable to feel like the falling leaf, to see the city lights dance like stars from the mountain top, to breathe the fresh mist and smile with ease.

Peace is never far to the dreamer. To dream is to find the peace inside all. To breathe the mist and call it home. To find home, to be the hummingbird is to find self in the dream.