They’ll write you into the stars, one day, that much I can promise. And I know you think I’m too idealistic sometimes, that my overwhelming cynicism is rooted in deeply offended, everlasting optimism – and you’re right, you’re right, I know – but you will.
You’re the things every townie kid dreamt of in the crib on a bed of landmark bricks, designating that someone lived here once. So we’ll write our names in Greek on the bricks because if we’re here forever anyway, why not make ourselves into fossils that can get lost in the rubble?
I didn’t dream about you, though, and that’s how I know. When I was a kid, I dreamt of the galaxies within a raindrop and how different, yet so similar, they are to those in a tear. Endless worlds in fathomless shades of blue, I’ll never quite understand why I’m so attracted to the muddled greys or why diamonds have to be a girl’s best friend because I think you’d always pick a dog.
But I’m not the only one, for, you see, in your dreams, you might see someone else. You may have dreamt of some superstar heartthrob, or maybe of the guy next-door you were sure would become famous. I mean, just look at how his hair flipped just so; if that wasn’t a certainty, you’d demand a refund from God for the all the wishes the clouds have stolen from you as they’ve followed you through time. Drifting listlessly through the ages, their zenith always seems just out of reach, like the fulcrum sun on a planetary mobile.
Spinning a slow circle, mobiles cradle you in the arms of inevitability and the god-fearing folk who love to play pretend. You’re content, but subconsciously desire more, need to have bigger dreams than you’re allowed. They disturb the disturbed who are disturbed by repetition and lacksidaisy.
There’s something beyond the hair-flip and the muddled greys because we can’t imagine the infinity of color. Someday, someone will write a song about you. They’ll write something for you that gets renown, elicits a reaction from the townies in their cribs. You don’t have to notice though, and that’s why they’ll write about you without even knowing. You’ll be writing about your own dreams, your own galaxies in the ennui of your personal Jazz Age.