First Draft

Oh, life could be a dream, schboom schboom. Everyday is the same, yet different. The swans twinkle on the pond of City Park as we drive by on the Vespa, my auburn hair flapping against my cheeks, pushed tightly below my helmet. I look goofy and cute in the helmet, and I’d have it no other way. Goofy and cute, pretty and damaged, broken wings yearning to soar, like Bitter Sweet did today, escaping from his bent cage. 

Oh, yes, life could be a dream, sweetheart. Cyclists and walkers roam the park, and the art museum, shining like a beacon at the end of a treed pathway, is lit up in rainbow, a different color shining onto each towering pillar. People gawk, people like myself, feeling the crisp New Orleans air against my exposed arms as we weave in and out of traffic. Not legal maneuvers, the maneuvers of rebels, with and without a cause, simultaneously. 

There are three floating swans that hover on the shimmering water. How romantic the reflections. A fleet of about ten or fifteen more boats are waiting at their harbor. “We were drawn by the lights,” says K. “Huh?” replies the attendant, obviously desensitized to the beauty. Isn’t that sad? That such a pretty sight could mean absolutely nothing to someone?

Absolutely nothing, but everything to me.

Life means nothing. Love means nothing. Yet it’s everything, simultaneously. Life could be a dream, or a beautiful nightmare. Either way I don’t want to wake up. I feel like a swan, and it makes me think of the Ugly Duckling. Like I’ve blossomed into something new, something more beautiful than any prior life has shown me. 

I am different, I am more mature, I am growing, with and without the pains, into who I am, what I am, destined to be. If I could take me up to a paradise up above, I would soar throughout cumulus clouds, with little cupid chimes echoing amidst the mist. Because all is perfect and imperfect, simultaneously. 

I think about that rainbow that shines onto the pillars tonight, and it makes me wonder if truly, there is a pot of gold buried underneath. If something so unwavering, so immoveable, can have treasure lying underneath. I want to capture the treasure. I want to swallow it whole. I want to bite into colors and gold until it illuminates from my pores, and then I want to fly like the swan I am into my paradise up above. 

I’ve lost my point, yet I’m found, once again; lost and found, simultaneously. Hello, hello again. Schboom schboom, hoping we’ll meet again. The swans twinkle, and happy couples kiss beneath their glowing necks, and I think about Swan Lake, and I wonder if the black swan is coming to take my place. 

Oh, life could be a dream, sweetheart. Everyday is a dream, a wonderful illusion of confusion. No plan, no idea of where we might be going, but I hold on tight, blissfully awaiting the following adventure, until the adventures run out, and this swan has flown away, up and up to her paradise up above, searching for her love. Oh, yes, life could be a dream schboom schboom. Life is full of possibilities, of glories and setbacks, simultaneously. 

My arms wiggle as they try to flap away and away, soaring somewhere and nowhere, simultaneously. If only all my precious plans could come true, then life would be a dream, sweetheart. 

Hello, hello again. Hoping we’ll meet again.