rarely do i dream, or
perhaps remember my
private drama series
playing under the
consciousness i can
not deliberately reach,
though when i was
able to grasp some
bits of pieces of an
already fading mid-
night memory it
will always involve
a plane crash-
ing (with full hollywood
exaggerated effects
of giant smoke and
angry fire) either
wreaking against the
vast thigh of a
meadow or on
poorly-spaced
gossiping roofs,
i have since
googled its meaning
resulting in more
confusion than
peaceful resolution
but at the back
of my honest
thought, i know,
perhaps the plane
is me, my ego, my
pride, my desire
to soar ever so high
wrapped with the
a bitter-tasting dread
of committing a
mistake permanent
and lasting, maybe,
maybe i have always
been afraid of falling
maybe i have always
been afraid of failing.
—
