As a child, I often had vivid dreams and terrifying nightmares. I still do.
In grade school, we were asked to submit poems to a poetry contest. I knew immediately that I wanted to write about my dreams, and I still remember the poem, all these years later. Sometimes it comes to mind randomly, and I find it soothing. It reminds me what it felt like to be a kid who still thought there might be significance in her unusual dreams. It went something like this:
Beyond the sea Beyond the sky Beyond the sight Of the human eye What we seek What is to be Or what is simply Incomplete Not by day We drift away To a land Always
It feels incomplete, so I think there was another verse, but I can’t recall it now.
The contest itself was one of those affairs where they accepted poems from a bunch of kids and published them in a volume that your parents had to pay an arm and a leg for. I think I knew it was scammy, even then. My poem was one of the “winners” and my parents reluctantly purchased the book. It is now either buried in my parents’ closet, or long gone in a minimalist purge, so I suppose the ending is lost.
I know a lot of people with a deep drive to create, write and make feel that their work does not matter unless someone else enjoys it. But this little poem, written 20-odd years ago, still makes me smile. It still makes me think. It was worth writing, just for me.