The girl who loved too much, didn’t love at all. She couldn’t say the things that were in her heart.

The fear that lies in exposure trumps the joys that come from revelation.

Sharing the joys of the soul with another beating heart can make the sun brighter, the birdsong sweeter, and the fresh air freer. Oh, that I could set the captive free from her shackles, self-cackled and keyless; clueless in the way to invite another in.

Oh, in usual American fashion, the pleasantries and successes of wisdom easily pass my lips. Therein, engaging on the superficialities of existence and the extremities of achievement is the wonder of closeness with which we draw near. Search further, and you will find the heart of my dreams. Dreams, not secrets, are, too, all too friendly and willing to engage in repartee of existence and substance. The dream searches feasibility in an unsure, complicated future. Perhaps lying in hopes of a traveling companion; one in which two dreams can bond to an extraordinary feat or tale to feel.

Yes, dreams are an open platform with which riders can hop on and off with no delay or derailment. The train going further down into the subway of consciousness has a few more stops, but never reaches the end of the line, and as yet had a visit from neither passenger nor train master. This is the stop that determines who I am; who I dream to be.