Swinging between worlds is not something you can do too well. Ideas, shapes, dreams can sometimes only ever remain that. During other times, especially during spring, one can discover and dissuade, dissect and dissolve. Sometimes the right answers are still not the right answers and the wrong answers don't seem to be making any sense either. Having had ideal scenarios playing out the man with the pot of gold who couldn't sleep at night because he thought he'd lose it becomes strangely ironic, even moronic. Then you go to sleep in bed feeling like a kaleidoscope, a bit disturbed and more often than not, heart-wrenchingly numb.
Tired out from the day's struggle you shut out the rest of the world, you read poetry on a stand, you hear things, you see things, you feel. You feel till you can't feel anymore and tell yourself oh god, please let this stop.And then it does, but you don't want it to, because stopping would mean the end. And the end would mean a fresh beginning. And then you'd have to grapple with the realities all over again. And then it would be a pattern. A cyclical pattern that you would break and evolve from, break and evolve from. And then you wouldn't think you were the proverbial phoenix anymore, just a shattered soul somewhere along the dusty streets of anywhere and everything would seem the same.