Overture

I stand in a jet stream, propelled by conflictions to write here.  Lonely, I want to reach out.  Reaching out, I know no one's actually here.  Alone, someone else may be reading.  Is this real?  Is this phony, fake, virtual?  If I find comfort, does it matter?  Should I write aware that someone may be reading, or do I write believing that no one ever will?
     I've had a lot of experience with writing journals.  I've wrestled thoughts to submission, and I've defeated despair a time or two.  I've even allowed myself to hate my mother, but journals are frustrating, because no one ever gets to read them; not even me.  They are a way to expunge and extract, and two days after writing an entry, the words make no more sense.  
     I suppose then, that this will not be a journal, and I had better pull it together to find some sense.  I suppose I believe someone will read this, maybe I even hope that someone will; so I will address "Cobalt Dreams" to you, and I shall give your you-ness the name Pneuma.

Dear Pneuma,
    It is raining here today.  I want to go out, into the rain, but I have no reason to leave the warm and dryness of my empty space.  An aimless walk would still lead me somewhere.  No matter whether I go by front door, by side door, or slip out the back, there are sidewalks waiting for me.  They moved me to the city, and all doors lead to sidewalks.  All sidewalks take me places.  I hate sidewalks.  
    I remember being a kid and getting on my bike.  I always liked going.  I never liked coming back.  I think a eutopian world would have roads and sidewalks that go away forever, and that whenever you stop, you are home, without ever having to go back.  Does that make sense, Pneuma?  
    This feeling seems a bit like restlessness, and a bit like running away.  When I sit to read, I want to get up and pace.  When I get up to pace, I want to sit and read.  I walk window to window and door to door.  I neither come in, nor go out.  I neither look out, nor acknowledge anyone looking in.  I want to scream, but no one will hear, so I hold it in to be proper and polite.  
     I cannot tell if the day makes me feel this way because I am bored, or because I am terrified.  Maybe, Pneuma, I feel this way because there is so much life inside me burning to be used, and I fear a day in rain will dampen the fire.  Maybe I feel this way because the landscape of my mind is so limited it cannot imagine an occupation for the heart while water falls from the sky.  I don't expect that you have answers, but I was missing you, and I don't feel so far away when I write.
     I hope all is well with you and yours.  If it isn't, I send my sorrow, and apologize for adding my concerns to yours.  

Love Always, 
Cobalt Dreams