“You want me to retool?” she asked her Father.
Silence. She was greeted with silence.
“Retool?” she thought to herself.
“Everything is a tool and everything is broken except my dreams. And my addictions,” she said out loud to the empty room.
“What have I given? When is it enough and why must dreams persist? What of this life will die with me and when shall I be granted the favor of release?!” she shouted.
Continuing in the silence she cried,
“You’ve given me too much. You told me to give it to you but it’s still heavy, it still hurts, it’s still lonely and though I move in your power and give by your possession my dreams persist and my mind remains addicted to its perceptions of prosperity and poverty while existing somewhere between the dialect of insanity where the dreams themselves propose that science and humanity are not insurmountable, that Pythagoras has solved the tax and slavery dilemma somewhere in the shared forests of Uncle Sam and Uncle Tom’s cabin where mermaids and fairies spin the records of Apollo’s song…”
She paused in her grief before continuing,
“…I am hungry. Nothing on this earth feeds me yet you keep me sustained. Still I dream. All of my Wednesdays are Ash Wednesdays and all of my Fridays are Good. I am on fire and wondering why as you continue to spread my flames while my dreams bath me in a water I’ve known only briefly. Water that has been given a name, one man who has been given the wells to host a community fountain…”
She stopped to cry before continuing,
“…It was under your rule that the Declaration of Independence was written but it was drafted in the perfunctory triumph of mans inalienable rights and signed in the inks of illusion. I know this is true because there is no independence I can declare when the peace of my loved ones is commensurate with such phenomenal adversarial entitlement that it avails itself without success in attempts to remove them from the angular distinctness of their purposed position, the one you’ve placed them in. You are the only finite stability we are asked to rely on yet my human mind still finds question in the dream and why it persists. There is no shame or fear. It is in gratitude I sleep, in gratitude I wake. In your silence please grant me the patience required to allow the unveiling of reason to be heard at the time appointed. Thank you for the music that soothes my soul until then.”
The sound of growth is purposefully attuned to a state of calm and does not always require rainfall and yet it is never foolish to see the crop before it has broken from the earth’s floor because it aligns with the hope employed by our visions and dreams when rain falls from the sky and our eyes.
It is human nature to taste a waffle and then dream of tasting it again