“A Dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight,
and his punishment is that he sees the dawn
before the rest of the world.”
Oscar Wilde, 1888
Up to avoid the street sweepers, I drive to the Mission & park on Treat Street – and can’t help but wish, at least a little bit, that it were in my motorhome. In the car with all of its windows I feel so… exposed. So naked. This is far from the sanctuary of Serenity…
I think of the things that must get done today, eye my backpack with the envelope that I will send to OmniTrace, priority mail, so that that last piece of what they need can be sought, found, compared with information that they have already discovered, and…
and maybe, in some way, a hole will be filled.
2 – a difficult or awkward thing
2 – (of a thing) no longer in its pure or original form; debased
Fuck You. This is ME that you’re trying to classify, and your definition does NOT apply… at least anymore. When I was younger, those descriptions could not have come closer to the truth of who I was, and perhaps that child still lies deep in my soul – the silent one, insecure, unknowing, afraid, alone… but at least now, on the outside, in the person I have fought like hell to become, that doesn’t apply.
Most of it, at least.
I am The Dreamer, The King, The Fool. I am The Secret. I am born of nothing and no one, I am The One Who Cannot Die, broken but never destroyed, and that which doesn’t kill me… makes me wonder who She is, more and more. Makes me believe that maybe she has the same things inside of her that have kept her alive. Makes me wonder if I would have felt it if she died, or… if I have, and just didn’t know what it was.
I wonder if, when she closes her eyes, she calls to me, like I do her.
It’s impossible to wrap my mind around how quickly this is moving – this new search. After the Adoption Agency gets my request for the non-identifying information it could still take them up to eight months to process it, but I’ve been told that if I call them, stay on them, request them to expedite the process, that it has been known to happen in as few as eight *weeks*, and occasionally, even less.
My birthday is in 98 days, including today.
After 45 years, it just may be the first one that I know my true name.
It just may be the first one that I don’t have to carry this with me.
It just may be the first one in which I find a reason to actually smile.
Of course, I may have to come to terms with the idea that I’m human – but that just may be something that I don’t mind too much, after all.