For it is the pursuing of dreams that cast us in our finest and most radiant colors, rendering us bested by no other.

Dreams Captured Once More

Well, another picnic of day it would seem. Yes, all the Ostridges, heads planted firmly in sand,
Whilst the Squirrels chase and chatter, and the birds all squawk and screech!
What a supreme myriad of fascination and wonderment remains man!

I have found no spectator sport more charming and seductive in my fifty-two year reign. Although many find not my nature shared, in this regard to people observation , I still brim and delight whenever I see one of these oddities amble on by.

Cocksure, yet timid, a true master of disguise, mankind, I sigh...what can we say or speak nobly on his behalf this day?
An object of stupidity often arrayed, loosely unwinding in sprawling display, Yes, chips on shoulders leading the parade in display.
Boys in men's bodies, girls more mature I would say, yet both are intriguing, this much I can say.

We dream when were children, then curse our dreams when old! We curse them by the blind eye we bend her way. Yes dreams! The very stuff life is made of, yet....few like to hear the word mentioned! Why? I guess because it remains a spot of soreness, cuddled next to their side.
A piercing remembrance that hounds quietly in the night, whispering.
Whispering yes, reminding us of those dreams discarded, and left behind.

We often in noble sense of responsibility state, I've a family to support! I respect with my entire fiber of essence, this tribute to family, yet...if we walk not in what inspires us, then the smile we give to our children remains muted and dim, yes, they sense our veiled sadness, as it falls also upon their heart.

I being the idealist to behold, have oft entertained this notion, that one surely should spend his or her life, subject to the deep yearning, and true call of their heart! In regard to dreams I do now speak. For it is the pursuing of dreams that cast us in our finest and most radiant colors, rendering us bested by no other.

I confess this day, I always yearned to be a simple farmer, yes, to dig in the ground daily, reminding me of its gift and strength, to freely walk daily among my own beauty and desire of heart. I find no nobler call, than that of the both farmer and sage, yes basted insight, escaping the masses I am sure.

The artist feels not his heart pound in passion, till he casts his oils strong, nor the carpenter like my Father, till he strikes the nail clean. Dreams, be they lofty or low, their the stuff life is made of, this certain to all.

Why now do you look away from my words, and scrunch up you face like I have yelled a curse word? If you be one of these, then your dreams were masterfully planted once, so masterfully so, that your heart wont let go!

Dreams recalled and embraced late in life, often begin with baby steps, small strides, or perhaps I should speak only for me.

May we not pull the blind of our minds to our dreams still crying out this day, but rather adorn ourselves in them once more, immersing ourselves in their power to restore, dignity and joy, to tired and stale hearts now lying dormant and dry.

May we adorn ourselves this day, in our dreams, wearing them saddled, as frontlets of our very soul.