One day you’re floating. As if everything can come true. As if wishes were horses to canter along the clouds. To scoop you up and fly you to all that you ever wanted.
The next day you’re sinking. You feel the undertow dragging you down, lost in the dark water and caught drowning in the undertow. Wondering what it felt like to breathe. Again.
I’m not sure what I’m doing. Not sure what I’m here for. That all of my dreams are silly, that they’ll never come true. That it’s pointless to dream of my dressage pony (or other equid) near where I live, of where I cannot escape, that I seem to be ineradicably stuck to thus far. Despite my pastoral longings, I am stuck in the city where my self bounces against the walls longing for greener pastures. To be at least closer to horses. Yet I dream of a place close to where we’ll attempt dressage some days and play on the woods other days.
Some days are hazy, whereas others I can see the dim light in the fog. But it’s like I’m living in a hazy water and nothing seems real. I don’t know what I’m doing, suspended in the thick water .
Things move fast but the right things seem to move slow. Too slow.
And I drift in the undercurrents, waiting for something. Waiting for dreams, that I’m not sure will hold. Waiting for a future that I so want but seems impossible now. Waiting, waiting.
I’m not always quite sure if I’m waiting for anything.