In which I take what would regularly be a poem and articulate it into a mini essay...
There are a lot of dreams that have walked through this park. The dreams, like the fashion, seemed to have changed meaning, changed velocity, changed priority.
At twenty years I sat on the park bench and read theatre, and knew that my imagination and passion was enough to take me anywhere. That I would close my eyes and follow the path in front of me and it would come true, as I had it planned.
That dream didn’t come true as it was supposed to. So I spent many years as the park bench letting the dreams pass, like people on their daily commute.
There are some that come every day; drink a coffee, hold on to my heart and pull me in directions I would love to go. There is a dreamer who sits on the dewy morning seat and writes four pages of journal knowing that like the runner passing she is in training for the novel.
There is a cat lady at my bench who feeds the homeless cats the tuna from her sandwich and does TNR to stop the suffering. She is a vegan except for the tuna sandwiches. She tells disbelievers that if she stopped eating fish she wouldn’t be able to feed the cats.
There’s one the dream of having and being a wonderful lover that sleeps the night on the park bench and he’s always gone by morning. During the day is an Oscar winning screenwriting the except the script has never been finished.
There are many dreams that pass and I smell their perfume or stroke their hair.
At 36 I sit at the park bench again. A book in my hand, my imagination running and all the lessons from the last 16 years that will go into the dreams of the future. It’s sad, but there needs to be more than passion and imagination.
The park rangers summon me to pick up a hammer and some nails and build a new park bench.