Pretty little poem

The grass is never greener than when it is actually brown -- when it is only a memory of a green that once was and that memory sings of a color that never could have existed, being somehow too true, too deep. Is that something a cynic would say? Yes. Perhaps. A cynic with corrected gamma and the ability to remove the rosy tint from the grandeur of recollection.

Was it ever as good as it seemed to have been when regarded in my forgiving memory? Was it ever so good?

I can wave it all away -- a puff of smoke, a powdery intrusion, a layer of dust. I can cause it to drift off and reassemble elsewhere. I can make more of anything than can possibly actually be. Breaking all laws of physics. I can make more of less. I can make more than there will be. I can make a fool of myself with great speed and skill. I can make myself a champ with nearly the same efficiency. I can skip lunch and go to the cosmetics counter and fetch a new outlook. And I'm clever enough to realize that it's just a little paint and glitter, not an actual renovation.

I laughed so much, it went directly into yawning. I stretched it to the thinning ends. I jumped, and the room didn't quake when I came back down. I always dreamed I could be light as a feather. I always dreamed.

I would have settled for fireworks in my brain.