Last night you talked yourself half crazy with what ifs and impatient longings.

No matter how much you talk, think it through, hope wish sigh, there's no guarentee that what you're doing will move you somewhere good, somewhere close to what you want to be.

Dreams so fat they shine. Trying to squeeze their terrific potbellies into your smallness. Pushing and shoving, stretching your insides to make place. That hurts sometimes. They're so happy with themselves: Alive and Allowed Ha Ha! Smilng swollen dreams, banging around and laughing too much in your secret place. They tell you who you can be, ignore who you think you are. 

Not knowing if they'll ever come out of the secret place, you just hold tight to whatever fleeting hope comes low enough to grab. That you can be someone better and bigger, that you are that someone already.

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