Little Day Dream Believer

red_riding_hood_by_yigit-koroglu

I remember my dreams like movies.  Sometimes they are like clips or previews but most of the time they are full length feature films for me to relive anytime I want.  I can just sit back and mentally flip through the catalog of desired nonsense or focus on the fun ones that left me ready and fully entertained.  Not everybody can remember their dreams let alone open up their mind wide enough or long enough to allow the fantasy to unfold like it should.  But I am blessed and cursed with the ability to dream asleep and awake.  It’s like falling down the rabbit whole with neon signs showing me the way down cobblestone streets to the dinner where I sat with undrinkable milk shakes and gum that blew bubbles that wouldn’t pop until the boy in the letter jacket bit the bubble with his werewolf like teeth.  Couldn’t help but remember that one.  And there’s plenty more where that came from said in my most appropriate 1960’s commercial voice.

But the ones I love, are the ones I play on repeat and rewind specific scenes, those are the secret smile ones.  The ones I adore and reward myself with are the ones that leave me breathless and wanting more.  The ones where I play a character and the life of her has been breathed into me by my mind’s creator.  The wonderful and powerful Oz of my dreams doesn’t hide behind the curtain, she wears a robe with a hood and only elbow length gloves underneath.   She’s the red riding hood of my nights and the wolves love to play with her.

Fantasies come to life in the corner of your thoughts and at night the mind sets them free.  Free to swallow your fears down on your knees and splatter your skin with the pleasures of perceptibility.  Inventiveness becomes the mastery of your own establishment.  Your cognition is the foundation of your freedom and your fairy tale musings fuel the after hours candy coated masked soda shoppe  flight of fancy you’ve found yourself in.  But, do you unzip the lips and ask him to speak, or do you adorn yourself with the mask become objectified by the mirage?  It is in fact all up to you and the artistry of your unreality.  The vision of your desires come to bare witness to the storytelling of your witching hour fable.  All trapped in the vault of your psyche where lucidity and phantasy intertwine and roll around in the dark until the heat is palpable. That sensation drips into the sunshine as the mundane of the day brings awareness to your body in a way the sends blood to your cheeks and your teeth bite your lip in remembrance.  It’s all in a day dream’s work when you have an endless supply of spectacular trickery and whimsical kink left over from the night before.

Once upon a time turns into whenever you want and whatever you need and those big eyes you have can see every inch of the big bad wolf.  From his shinned shoes tucked under his three piece suit with hand cuffs in his pocket or his naked shower gel scented wet body sliding by yours under the rain in the make-believe of your mind.  All in the freaky fakery of your imagination where you don’t need a disguise for your playful pretention, it’s all in the nostalgic narrative of your fabrication.  The hand held at your finger tips long and short of it all directed by you, the master of your forest, the girl under the hood left in bed with the wolf.

 

 

 

 

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