I’ve built a life for myself alongside the skyscraper dreams I’d learned to toss aside. I haven’t taken out the trash yet, as the pile isn’t too high for comfort. I know that any day I’ll have to rid myself of all this rubbish, but I’m hoping that something will come along to make me forget it all. A kindly old man who falls and breaks his hip while I’m waiting for the bus, or a sad little kid waiting for her dad to pick her up from soccer practice, or a charismatic oaf getting his clock cleaned by someone he didn’t ever view as a threat. Any of these things could possibly make life more interesting for me in that moment, but I’ll shrug them all off and keep on with the drudgery. I’m afraid to root through this pile of aspirations; I don’t want to give myself any more bad ideas that I’d already nipped in the bud. They seemed so promising at the time, but something made every single one unfeasible. Are there any at my disposal that I can achieve after all my struggles? Let me take a look here. “Fly like a bird.” Stupid. “Eat a 64 ounce steak.” What was I thinking? “Write a book of short fiction.” Well, nobody would read it anyway. “Settle down in the suburbs.” That was a dream? More like a nightmare. I’ll have to burn that one.
WHARVED 