Living the Dream

One would hope that having ones dreams come true would be enough to ease ones spirits.

One would also hope that 8753 kilometers, however many miles that may be, would be enough distance for even the most distant of lovers.

Just as one would hope that a month without contact would, as they say, make the heart grow fonder. Or that a new One would make an easy replacement for the old One.

But, as life would have it, that simply can't be so. That is, life can never be simple.

There's a certain illusion to living in a foreign country.

The illusion is that the uniqueness of culture encompasses everyday life and makes it less ordinary.

That despite the hours turning into days, then weeks, months, and so on..., the culture remains infinitely alluring, transforming each mundane experience into a flavorful exuberance of fascinating culture.

Yet the hermit never quite does stop needing its shell.

Though it may travel from shore to shore, changing its appearance as it must, as is necessary, it could never be more than what it has always been- what it's intended to be.

As it is, however, one carries with them their entire life story; struggle unceasing to change with the atmosphere around it.

After much evaluation, it becomes clear that dreams come true are never as good as the dreams themselves.

That perhaps dreams are better kept untouched, reserved for special occasion, like fine wine in a dusty bottle, neatly lined on a shelf amongst others of similar voraciousness and rarity.

A dream made ordinary is just a happy life, nothing more, certainly nothing to answer each and every problem or to assure pleasure with every step of the foot.

In a similar way one finds that the feet carry on in much of the same way as they would 8753 kilometers, that is 5438 miles, away.

Perhaps they walk greater distances or pedal harder on the bicycle. Perhaps the name of the location and style of the design of the places they walk to are different, yet the purposes of these places are the same as the purposes of the familiar ones.

The music may be different, the pace of dance may change, but the feeling of a large hand on a small waist remains the same.

While the hand may be exotic and smooth, it cannot guarantee that it is the one that you want to hold. This hand, this exotic and smooth hand, may not be able to connect you to stimulating company or drawn out conversations.

The wine it holds within fine crystal may contain different, old flavor, flavor with a history behind it. Yet the pourer may be more colorless than ordinary.

The promises of foreign lands do not exist. They make no promise to be exceptional to anyone, the expectation is all our own.

For as it is, the clock will continue to click, the weather will move on as it will, life will fall into place accordingly; everything will always change, yet through it all one still manages to remain the same.