eyes made of stars

When I think of beauty, I often see bright dreams. And I picture all those dreams being so big they would float to the tippy top of the sky, past the earth’s atmosphere, soaring into other galaxies. While at the same time, I think of dreams as being held in one hand, passed back and forth, flooded and energized by the people that get to touch every dream that crosses your heart. I want those dreams to become something that grows and becomes while being something that remains whole in my hands.

This year on my dad’s birthday we were in Vail, CO. We went skiing on one of the first days of the season. It was straight magic, as skiing always is for me. The snow was shit, the mountain was only about ten percent open, and the amount of experts were few and far between, but damn, was the magic still as prevalent as it always is. When I look at something that is so undeniably majestic, I feel undeniably alive. And for me to feel undeniably alive is, I think, the best gift this life has yet to give me. In that space I felt entirely safe and completely insane. As though the mountains see me for everything I am and still choose to hold me there, let me ride their slopes, screaming and marveling at the crystal goodness that I call home.

Most of my dreams are dive bar dreams. They are messy and crumbly, pretty cheap, and unbalanced but damn is the music they hold solid gold. The musky smell is consistent, the stains are permanent, the people are nosy, but damn are they true to themselves. And the dreams they paint are never petty or cruel, yet the execution is just about as well done as a young child’s. Honestly, when I think of this though, I can only smile. Because what’s wrong with having dreams that are messy, junky, confusing, and stained. Isn’t it better to try than to not? And isn’t it better to turn everything into a dream then to never dream at all.