Vision

I fancied myself, a writer. My life ebbed with phrases and climaxes, reality shows me that my conjunctions will never be plausible.

I fancied myself an athlete, my body and mind one in fluid movements accompanied by the correspondence of medal blades and ice.
In stead injury left me crippled.
I dreamed of a time when the vibrations from my lips would fill countless stages. I earned to play the rich passages of film scores.
The criticism are reality, and have crushed the dream.
I pictured myself in light green scrubs adorned with clipboard and stethoscope assessing coughs and broken bones.
Somethings will only every be fanciful images.
Yet,
I walk through another day of crushed perceptions, and I see the multitude of smiles that greet me from the many people who know me.

I see that even if I never play in Carnegie hall, my living room can hold just as much power

I know that my circumstances are good, excellent, a life that most people can only dream of.

I understand that my vision is cleared by my crushed fancies.