Like the atoms

The silver spoon,

   was it golden?

Nearby the sweet lagoon,

I saw Holden

I did not plan all of these to rhyme, but it did. Not sure how it would seem to people, but isn't life a crazy madman, always trying to ease it with a cup of coffee, though ending up with more decisions to grab again until people don't stop.

You get it, life is anything you hardly understand. Except it is bitter, and okay a bit sweet, certainly. Anyway, people are no different, they try to be grand and all or not grand at all, it confuses the hell out of me, I know you did too.

But that is not the point here, this sort of poetry I write you about is the dream I had Thursday night.

It is finished, I guess, because I have no words to add anymore, and it really is all about it, in my head. But is it weird that I don't understand it at all? I mean, the dream and the poem are fine to me. It's just telling me something I don't quite understand. I really am crazy.

Anyway, I came to you for a million reasons, and one of those is because you try to understand, sometimes make something that isn't even there at all, but it's amazing anyway.

The silver spoon,

In my dream, it was this girl, the one we call Snow White of Wall street. It is insane really, because she is the only girl I always tell you about and she had no idea. She's this château level of richness. But the line isn't because of that, the reason is her flawless skin,

like the milk , like the linen, like the beautiful decanter, like the swan.

And it kind of mirrors onto me; A light retracted and it hit me.

I realize I'm no good for her, but that's stupid and very childish to think, so the next day, after I had this dream about her, I grant her the sun, okay very corny, it's just a sunflower I picked from somebody's lawn that I wouldn't know if they're being grand and all or not grand at all.

To tell you what happened as she received this lousy flower, which smells nothing like in perfumes or paintings, inviting you to smell it or touch it. I still wouldn't tell you about it.

Moving on to my dreams once again, I actually saw you there. In an enchanting lagoon, the type of where fairies lived in, the type where you would just say "sweet" or "holy moly" kind of stuff. There are flowers that I'm not familiar with, and probably even every green nature thing was there, where you are, standing, nearby by this very clear lagoon but you couldn't see the bottom.

Both of you, you and Snow White, wore your typical clothing—dandy.

And that's it.

I don't understand, but I know it has meaning, I just don't understand. I initially thought you wanted me to never let her go, Snow White, chase her back in France, but you never said that kind of stuff, you mostly listen and say something very wise, like an old man but classy, the one that would tell you cool stuff like things about riding a horse and teaching you classy card games. I know you’d say to me: “Distance is a measure but also geography, one cannot choose both.” What a philosopher, and then I know, it is not all about her—the dream, the poem.

 I read about something online, that dreams are your subconscious, telling you things you're not aware of in waking life and stuff. There are so many explanations about my dream, and if I tell you all of these now, we will never end this agony. The point is I don't understand. I was just describing my dreams, naturally. I only want to understand.

After the treacherous intellect of the internet, I seek real people to answer me. They told me the meanings between "social status" and "self". But when I wrote it, it's not it. The dream, embodies this fragility and I am afraid it will break

into pieces until it'll be a complete stranger to me.      

I end up writing this letter to you. But it is hard to hear from you, I am starting to doubt if it's even worth thinking about the meaning of my writing.

I began to recall the process,

the journey

of me finding meaning

It's sort of spiritual but more philosophical.

I suddenly remember your sculptures, the way you made them, and then the outcome itself. It's funny how I always try to guess what you are going to make after assessing minimal changes in your work.

Like how I am now, but this time, I hold the knife, the gouge, the lifeless little oak, but more stupid, because you're dead. Changes, they are always going to be there, but different. Like my dreams into a poem, like how my mind into their hopes, or desperation, or destruction, whatever it is.

 I decided to publish the poem. Input a nano change.

The silver spoon,

   was it golden?

Nearby the sweet lagoon,

I saw, Holden.

I'm trying to understand, but this is a process. Things are always going to be complicated, hardly understandable, all that stuff. But then I saw it, the thing that matters. Which is the point of all this stuff, the meaning varies because of what we choose—the important, what we think matters. I think I got it right, to put questions, and may it be about a freaking silver, or blue, or green. And it's funny, that the answers lay there in odd circumstances, which we wouldn't expect it to see, some in a harrowing cave, or in a sweet lagoon.

Anyway, I titled this poem, indisputable, like a love string, like the Saturn, like the atoms.

And with my words buried in this very soil, I hope it reaches you, I know you understand.