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City of Dreams
By Robert Lindsay
For years the teenage girl had prayed, prayed for her Dream Man. She knew exactly what he looked like, what clothes he wore, how he combed his hair, what he liked to eat, what he was like in bed, his favorite romantic lines. In fact, she had his entire personality analyzed better than most analysts could.
She knew him from boyhood through wild teen years to stable manhood. Now he was 40, and he was finally a man. After all, all men are boys until age 40, she reasoned, perking her female wiles, fox ears in the air.
Through the years, Dream Man had never changed. He always looked the same, had the same voice and even had the same outfits. He liked the same books and the same movies.
He never changed; he only grew. He was like the best of us that way.
One night she sat on her bed, with a great book by a great writer in her hands. The silver prose sang right off the pages. Pages leaped and fluttered as she turned them giddily, leaves in the wind, dancing.
But her mind kept going back to Dream Man, just like it always did.
Behind everything, there was a surface and a deeper pool. And all art forms merged together in the end.
Behind the painting on the wall, a city of words.
Behind every prayer, a city of dreams.
It was raining outside, steady dribble and flow away there. The lights flickered now and again. The bright dimmed once again. She looked up.
A glimmering against the wall, and there he was, shining just like forever. Dream Man, in all of his resplendence, spanking new as yesterday.
She blinked her eyes.
âHow did you get here?â
âI came down with the rain,â he answered cryptically.
She blinked again. Not only did I get a stud, but I got a poet as well. Dream Man indeed. Dream Man squared. Dream Man for the win.
âWhy? You answered my prayers?â
âSpecial delivery,â he shone, flashing at the wall.
âJust for me?â
âFor you only. For who else? Someone listens, you know.â
âSo dreams really do come true then? A-and prayers? Prayers too?â A bit of water brimmed her eyes.
âNot really,â he riddled. âBut maybe for a little bit, a dribble of hope, a tiny chance, a morsel, a peck, a taste.â
âAnd then?â She was blinking furiously.
âThen we pull away the curtain,â he revealed with stark finality.
âClose your eyes, then open them,â he charmed.
She did as she was told. Snake in a trance, how could she not?
When she opened her eyes, his hand was in the air, fading in and out, technicolor against the wall.
A wave, and gone.
What say then? What to do now? She was dizzy, and the room was pitching back and forth on its seas. She may as well have drunk a bottle.
But a song was in the air. She lifted her chin upwards, and the words began to flutter in the air.
âWe all had,â she sang. âA once upon a time.â
In a decrepit world, stumbling in tears and rags, starving and bleeding amidst the ruins, perfection is a mean hoax.
But as an antidote to the cruel pallor of life in praxis, kneeling against the wall, hands clasped, the city of dreams.
Source: http://www.robertlindsay.wordpress.com
By Robert Lindsay
For years the teenage girl had prayed, prayed for her Dream Man. She knew exactly what he looked like, what clothes he wore, how he combed his hair, what he liked to eat, what he was like in bed, his favorite romantic lines. In fact, she had his entire personality analyzed better than most analysts could.
She knew him from boyhood through wild teen years to stable manhood. Now he was 40, and he was finally a man. After all, all men are boys until age 40, she reasoned, perking her female wiles, fox ears in the air.
Through the years, Dream Man had never changed. He always looked the same, had the same voice and even had the same outfits. He liked the same books and the same movies.
He never changed; he only grew. He was like the best of us that way.
One night she sat on her bed, with a great book by a great writer in her hands. The silver prose sang right off the pages. Pages leaped and fluttered as she turned them giddily, leaves in the wind, dancing.
But her mind kept going back to Dream Man, just like it always did.
Behind everything, there was a surface and a deeper pool. And all art forms merged together in the end.
Behind the painting on the wall, a city of words.
Behind every prayer, a city of dreams.
It was raining outside, steady dribble and flow away there. The lights flickered now and again. The bright dimmed once again. She looked up.
A glimmering against the wall, and there he was, shining just like forever. Dream Man, in all of his resplendence, spanking new as yesterday.
She blinked her eyes.
âHow did you get here?â
âI came down with the rain,â he answered cryptically.
She blinked again. Not only did I get a stud, but I got a poet as well. Dream Man indeed. Dream Man squared. Dream Man for the win.
âWhy? You answered my prayers?â
âSpecial delivery,â he shone, flashing at the wall.
âJust for me?â
âFor you only. For who else? Someone listens, you know.â
âSo dreams really do come true then? A-and prayers? Prayers too?â A bit of water brimmed her eyes.
âNot really,â he riddled. âBut maybe for a little bit, a dribble of hope, a tiny chance, a morsel, a peck, a taste.â
âAnd then?â She was blinking furiously.
âThen we pull away the curtain,â he revealed with stark finality.
âClose your eyes, then open them,â he charmed.
She did as she was told. Snake in a trance, how could she not?
When she opened her eyes, his hand was in the air, fading in and out, technicolor against the wall.
A wave, and gone.
What say then? What to do now? She was dizzy, and the room was pitching back and forth on its seas. She may as well have drunk a bottle.
But a song was in the air. She lifted her chin upwards, and the words began to flutter in the air.
âWe all had,â she sang. âA once upon a time.â
In a decrepit world, stumbling in tears and rags, starving and bleeding amidst the ruins, perfection is a mean hoax.
But as an antidote to the cruel pallor of life in praxis, kneeling against the wall, hands clasped, the city of dreams.
Source: http://www.robertlindsay.wordpress.com
Quote from IMFTrader:
City of Dreams
By Robert Lindsay
For years the teenage girl had prayed, prayed for her Dream Man. She knew exactly what he looked like, what clothes he wore, how he combed his hair, what he liked to eat, what he was like in bed, his favorite romantic lines. In fact, she had his entire personality analyzed better than most analysts could.
She knew him from boyhood through wild teen years to stable manhood. Now he was 40, and he was finally a man. After all, all men are boys until age 40, she reasoned, perking her female wiles, fox ears in the air.
Through the years, Dream Man had never changed. He always looked the same, had the same voice and even had the same outfits. He liked the same books and the same movies.
He never changed; he only grew. He was like the best of us that way.
One night she sat on her bed, with a great book by a great writer in her hands. The silver prose sang right off the pages. Pages leaped and fluttered as she turned them giddily, leaves in the wind, dancing.
But her mind kept going back to Dream Man, just like it always did.
Behind everything, there was a surface and a deeper pool. And all art forms merged together in the end.
Behind the painting on the wall, a city of words.
Behind every prayer, a city of dreams.
It was raining outside, steady dribble and flow away there. The lights flickered now and again. The bright dimmed once again. She looked up.
A glimmering against the wall, and there he was, shining just like forever. Dream Man, in all of his resplendence, spanking new as yesterday.
She blinked her eyes.
âHow did you get here?â
âI came down with the rain,â he answered cryptically.
She blinked again. Not only did I get a stud, but I got a poet as well. Dream Man indeed. Dream Man squared. Dream Man for the win.
âWhy? You answered my prayers?â
âSpecial delivery,â he shone, flashing at the wall.
âJust for me?â
âFor you only. For who else? Someone listens, you know.â
âSo dreams really do come true then? A-and prayers? Prayers too?â A bit of water brimmed her eyes.
âNot really,â he riddled. âBut maybe for a little bit, a dribble of hope, a tiny chance, a morsel, a peck, a taste.â
âAnd then?â She was blinking furiously.
âThen we pull away the curtain,â he revealed with stark finality.
âClose your eyes, then open them,â he charmed.
She did as she was told. Snake in a trance, how could she not?
When she opened her eyes, his hand was in the air, fading in and out, technicolor against the wall.
A wave, and gone.
What say then? What to do now? She was dizzy, and the room was pitching back and forth on its seas. She may as well have drunk a bottle.
But a song was in the air. She lifted her chin upwards, and the words began to flutter in the air.
âWe all had,â she sang. âA once upon a time.â
In a decrepit world, stumbling in tears and rags, starving and bleeding amidst the ruins, perfection is a mean hoax.
But as an antidote to the cruel pallor of life in praxis, kneeling against the wall, hands clasped, the city of dreams.
Source: http://www.robertlindsay.wordpress.com
Very nice.
Quote from IMFTrader:
City of Dreams
By Robert Lindsay
Source: http://www.robertlindsay.wordpress.com
Yes. Thanks for posting that. My daughter is taking journalism (11th grade) and my goal is for her to be a writer. We are going to discuss Lindsay in the next few days. the reason I say this is my goal for her to be a writer, sheesh does that girl read. She reads everything and ya need to be a reader to be a writer.