Wishful Thinking

Wishful Thinking...

The dandelion explodes with optimism as I breathe my wish on it.  Its remnants scatter to the winds, and I wonder would it carry my wish to the universe.

Who or what I expected to respond to this request I do not to know.

But the potential of that bounding promise was too much to pass up as a child.  Dandelions, shooting stars and every wishful romantic omen you can think of, I tried them all.  And for what?  Mostly little pointless things.  Things I thought I wanted or needed.  Did I ever believe those wishes would come true and those treasures manifest or was I simply content to daydream.  I cannot say for sure now.
How I would explain the sudden material changes in my life?  Well the prospect of granted wishes excited me too much to worry about the logistics or explanations.  I thought I grew out of that.

It may not be toys, or gold I wish for now.  Not in their raw form.

We all grow older and more cynical, and while many hold on to the hope of a benevolent paternal being, not everyone's wishful thinking is so obvious.  We constantly make promises, deals and bargains, often with ourselves or some unknown entity.
Let this happen.
Stop this happening.
Give me a chance.
And that's okay.  If you work towards that wish, and you are not crying out for a sign as you drift through the muddy waters.  It may be purely comfort, but all too often I hear good things come to those who wait and what's for you won't pass you but these ideas, while comforting are also wishful thinking. You can fall into that pit waiting for the universe to align and give you the help you'll need.  It's hard.
To give up the comfort, after having shrugged off the responsibility.
But inaction is irresponsible.

Better to think of that dandelion as your options.
Some seeds are fruitful, some lost to the wind and elements.
But it is worth the breath you spell.

Lines

Diagonal lines, parallel lines and perpendicular lines but no curves and no optical illusions.  This could only be art.  With a glass in hand I wander around the rest of the exhibition.  I pause for a while in front of each exhibit and sip, determined to give each piece its dues in spite of my boredom.  The gallery itself is the most interesting thing and with my friend we speculate how it would make an awesome apartment.  After one short lap perusing each piece and eavesdropping on various conversations we decide to leave.
It had been a minor diversion on the way to the pub.  If it had been my goal, I would have been bitterly disappointed.  As it were, it was an opportunity to fluff up the credibility of my cultured self without surrendering too much time.

And yet I would find my mind wandering back to the exhibition and back to lines and what they meant and how we used them, in buildings and in building speech.  The lines that we cross, the fine line that guides us and the line we toe.  The deadline we must meet and the line we draw in the sand.  Suddenly, I got it.
The delayed realisation dawned on me, one ray at a time.  It all starts with a line, a dotted line, a swiggley line or  a curved line on the page.

We follow the line.

Even as our gaze turns out to the horizon, we follow the line and strain our eye to catch a glimpse of what lies beyond, be that the receding object of interest or the impending object of curiosity.

Sometimes we step out of line, despite those guiding contours.
And sometimes we forget our lines, like the sloppy actors that we are.