Digging graves, unconsciously, just digging.
They morph into something scientific, to be dissected or picked apart. Between disillusionment and the idea that you needed to be more than what you should be or than what you really wanted.
You don’t really dig graves. You dream, like every single one of us.
It’s what we do.
There’s an echo in it. There’s a peace in it. It’s more real than reality.
So, when I woke one day to find myself digging my own grave.
I remembered my dream.
It had nothing to do with graves. It had everything to do with love and happiness.
There were diagonals, horizontal, spirals, eyes and lips scattered around a field of purple crayon with push pins and buttons chuckling at the silly behavior surrounding the onlooking scrutiny.
Admidst the blur of sanity came a gaffaw of irony.
Then, we remember.
It’s always a little late.
But, sometimes. We remember the most important part.
when you dream,
Just like the man who dreamt that graves should be dug. He remembered love and reminded the mother to stay close.
Then, he remembered the graves.
There was one less.