Because I Never Forget A "Dream"

I remember that night I sat there, watching the clouds obscure the full moon and transform the world into a blue haze. It seemed that time had granted me a reprieve from it's constant vigil, so that I could spend forever gathering the thoughts that seemed to flow out of the deepest regions of my soul like tiny fragments of complete truth, mixed with the sweetest ingredients of my dreams.

I remember a small pond, glittering with the dancing light of a billion playful stars jealously trying to compete with the awesome glow of a pale moon as it drew my attention away from it's smaller cousins in the night sky. The ponds shore danced with the activity of tiny fish as they desperately tried to catch the stars across the dark water's surface.

I remember the sign said that the park was closed after dark, but that only helped retain my privacy as I sought out answers to all my problems in the quiet solitude. The park seemed the perfect size to envelope a single man's personal universe, and its cliche terrain only added to its dreamlike persona, as if it's landscape itself formed straight from the pages of a poet's secret journal.

I remember the stream that flowed down from the pond, it's rocky edge gave refuge to a thousand, singing bullfrogs, trying to keep harmony with a million, tiny, chirping crickets in the night air. Their music seemed to weave the most fascinating stories around the landscape of the park, masking the utter silence that I myself inflicted upon my own company.

I remember a park bench right on the tiny beach. During the day, people would sit there playing foolishly with their fishing rods in hopes of catching the ever elusive sun fish beneath the water's surface. Yet I instead preferred the small tree stump nearby, that provided seating for only one, and one was all I needed.

I remember the walk to the park, tracing my footsteps through the same dark streets through the quietest parts of town. Pondering the lives of the people I passed, and wondering if they too possessed such turmoil in their minds as I.

I remember an old swing set in the park, where I could sit alone, running the tips of my sneakers through the loose sand, forming shapes and writing names and words in the dirt. How easy it is, to digress while turning weightless in the air.

I remember a small bridge, placed on the distant edge of the pond, put there by man for no other reason then aesthetic appeal. How calming it was, to remove my socks and shoes and make ripples in the water with my toes, spinning the glittering images of stars into swirls of bright mesmerizing light.

I remember I thought it strange, to be in this most profound of places all alone...

...Or was I?