A Birth of Sorts
Once I was a hermit.
It was a kind of life.
I lived alone. I owned stuff; I worked to pay for it.
It was also a kind of death.
Then one day on the road of life, I came across a dream.
I thought it was my dream; it promised everything I wanted.
I probably should have looked harder to see how I was supposed to get it.
I probably deliberately avoided looking.
And so I died a different way.
I got to be everything I wanted ... in name only.
When the dream turned out to be hollow, I found that the promise was also the trap.
I could not leave without losing everything I thought I had gained.
I wish I could say that I awoke then.
But that did not happen.
Instead, I tore at my bonds only to have them snap back into place uncut.
The only exit I could see was death, and it became more enchanting each day.
The awakening came much later. It took many steps; too many.
Finally, I realized that the promises were lies, though I still could not break free.
What I did do was to stop struggling in it, stop drawing the bonds tighter, that way.
Now, I might only be a passenger in my life, but I no longer tried to steer off the cliffs.
And then the dream spit me out.
I awoke scrambling to find a foothold as the dream dumped me beside the road.
It was not easy; I got new bruises to add to the ones the dream had given me.
But I was no longer dead.
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