What Could it All Mean?

A sort of plastic flavor. A feeling of remorseful rememberance. A dayless month and a hourless minute. Fact upon fact, we know less. We felt less. We heard and we felt, but we could never see. Life unlived and a tempted feeling of importance. Egos to die for. Words like knives and knives here are like plastic. Less threat? Still draw blood.
Colorful icons and dressed up lives. Sleepless dreamers and deadly buissness. Dread for the next time. The next day. Another test, more or less skill. What is skill? Just being able to say, you did what you said you would. You could. You tried and you did. Success means nothing unless you’re unwilling to discover the other things that come in the midst of failure. You wanted to climb up there, but you made it to the bottom. You failed. But it makes no difference. A label to stick on to punish of what was expected.
Cold eyes freeze, frozen go dead, dead are blind. Tepid don’t melt but you know what you felt.
Ramblings of a dreamer and not much time. A lot of time. But eyes closed and everything fades as everything grows near. Lot of fear. Fear fear fear of what? Of the unexpected. Small minds have little worries. But imagination brings out the pain of the days. From the what if to the what happened. Confusion and you’re going in circles. Danger of the dark. Sleepless nights remembering what I should have done, what I haven’t done, what I wish. Wishes are endless. They may die but they never fade. They grow and grow, until your life becomes a wish. A wish for tomorrow, a wish that usually fails. Wish failed, you failed. It sputters and dies. But you can turn the key a few more times.
Wordless and lips burn of what’s unsaid. Choking on my tongue. Fatigue and a lifetime of everything but life! In your head and enjoying it. Dancing in the moonbeams and kissing beloved. Running the streets and talking to those who never speak. Laughing at the lies and the pain and the things that shouldn’t be laughed at. Holding out a hand to everyone who needs it. Running for what you can’t. Sleeping outside and counting raindrops. Endless time, nothing in mind. Warm hugs and slips of smiles. Wake up and you die. But why? It’s all the possible. But restriction and constriction graps your neck and you’re dying. Dying each day with what you can’t say, what time tells, what hands may never touch... It’s all to much. What you may never convey.. Each day. You wake up before you die, so do you dream when you do die? The dying are the dreaming. Inside I’m mostly sleeping. But sleep, brother of death. Not my quote and not my idea, but it works.
Dreaming of a taste of that. And dreaming of the day when it doesn’t die. Dreaming of a taste of heaven.. Doesn’t everyone? Heaven is so close but so far, and it has many disguises. But even the closest can be the farthest. And what if the farthest aren’t really closest? In vain.
My rambling turns from nonsense to reality and back again.