I read , when I go onto Facebook, the rantings and posts of people I have known, from every 'time' in my small dimension in this place, old boyfriend and lover, sisters, brothers, cousins, others whose children have flown to the light, others who have left to the light and come back, new friends, old friends, young people old people middle aged people
I watch them speak of their children, post pictures , speak of their love and their loved ones, some seem to be always happy as they put their best faces on, one always showing how young she is, one begging for love as a teenager, many so happy they have babies now, some announcing their love for their marriages, some vocalizing their dreams , idealists, hoping, young. so young.
I am told they are all me, also, and I remember when I , too, was caught in the snares of believing 'this will never go away, this dream is so real, this white picket fence, these children running in joy, this man who will grow old with me.."
In my foolishness, I recall even my lonely teenager, dramatic, angst filled. I look at the posts and wonder, do they know, do they know this is all a dream. Do they know that this is a sand painting, that will blow away in the wind? Do they even want to consider that?
But I cannot tell them, because it is not up to me. I cannot say a thing. I cannot let them know this is a dream, and is not real. It is so real to them, it is so important. I would have hated someone to tell me that when I believed it was all real.
They will all eventually know. I need not concern myself with it.