All a dream

(Slight reference to syex) I have many dreams. I want to be an actor. Lights, camera, action, my face plastered among the stars, my voice carried along the wind with more weight than before. People will listen to me when I am on the big screen. I will learn what to say and when to say it, I will bring joy to the people. I will be so joyous that they will listen and I will break into everything if it means being listened to. I will make them laugh and cry, I will write, I will learn another man's words and they will love me. I hope they will love me. If they love me they might listen to me. They might listen to me when I talk about the man I am, they might consider my perspective. My perspective is we hang into the words of celebrities too much, and so many of them are rich and stupid. I will not be rich and stupid. I will give my money away and keep anoigh to live and party. I will dance and post pictures if me vomiting online before anyone else can. I will dance, because i love to dance.. I will dance with men and women. I will dance badly, flailing my arms an kicking my legs like an idiot and people will see me. I will have my name in lights and spread my words. I will scatter my opinion and people might sctualky listen. The might believe me and take on my words. Other people are not the enemy. Other people have never been the enemy. I will have a nice house, not a big one. But I will have a huge garden with lots of trees and wi would let people walk their dogs through it. I will have loads of dogs. I willl go to the beach and feel comfortable, I would tan my back and chest ready for the latest shoot. I would do all my own stunts and wear a pink sock to cover my bits and I'd do horror and theater and sitcom and soap. I would be in everything and everywhere without a care. I will love and cry and laugh on screen and I will live my life. I am made for the stage, someone tell me what to say. But I'm stuck here in the place of a trans teenager, waiting and waiting and waiting. Because it was all a dream. As the violence becomes real, I will have to fight my way to the stage, claw my way to the spotlight. They may not permit my name in lights. Created in a position of longing, in a time where I could fulfill the longing and they expect me to wait? Four long - long - years I have waited so far. Since I learned I could be a man I knew I was. Four long years I have been trapped with the wring parts that's another three before I'm old enough, another seven for the wait, however long it takes to get this 'diagnosis'. How can you diagnose a man? I am a fucking man. I am a cool man an I deserve the stage. I deserve that spotlight. I deserve that place on the screen. I deserve to be able to live in my body. I deserve to be able to shower easily and sleep naked. I deserve to piss standing. Maybe it is all a dream, but dreams are how we get places. Dreams are the side affects of the beautiful, glorious, restorative - untimely boring - practice of sleep. Dreams are survival.

Have you ever paid attention to anyone's body in your dream? They look all spindly and strange. No bones, just hardened skin. Faces don't look like faces but you know who they are. Arthur was an okay guy. He wasn't a bad guy, he was quite a good guy despite the trail he left behind. A glorified leprechaun. He was short and ginger, yet people seemed to flood to him. He had gone out with Alex and let's just say it didn't go very well. Arthur liked Megan, but in a worse way than you think. The world ended. Arthur had to go on a walk with Alex and his flashing, swirling, dispersing face and his waddling mother for dream reasons. He went home and cried, in an terrible state of dream petrification. Megan came over, because it was a dream, and 'cheered him up' if you catch my innuendo. But it was all a dream. Their bodies were full of corners, thick cranky bone, awkward joints, sickly skin, all rotten. Bodies look weird in dreams. They look ill and old, yet unnatural. Like you had pulled skin over a badly made skeleton. Everything is too skinny to hold anything, wrists tiny and set to snap with the large, crude fingers. Bodies in dreams do not feel like Bodies. They feel stiff like a mattress.

I have a secret dream. A dream that is not such a dream but my weakness for the western world. My weakness is that I woukd not mind a white picket fence. I think, had I been normal, I could have worked a boring job and wore a navy blazer, come home, kiss my beautiful wife, watch the telly, care about the football. But I'm not normal. I can't care about the football, I have things I need to care about, wether I'm allowed to exist and wear I can piss. I dream of a lady, a family, a suburban house, having to fight the HOA to get my son a slide from his window - mainly because I wanted to paint the house purple -, a typical job, a routine, present life, a lovley life, trips to Spain, watching netflix, walking the dog, having a pint, living the every old Joe's life. But it's almost like I can't have that. Not in this body. It's almost like I can't have that. Not in this economy.