I Dream In Values as I Live In Nightmares

A poetic essay on the Collective as a whole from my fraction of reality.

I dream of a world where we can be ourselves—
in mind, body, energy of livelihood.

Without addressing our values as a collective,
I fear we may never achieve such a dream.

The whole world needs to awaken—

go down the spiral path
do their shadow work
self-heal to find their own values.

Whatever name it must be does not matter.

Our world is asking us to look inside ourselves,
pull out our own values of self within the whole,
and then apply the values.

In ancient times, mythologies were consolidated when empires met—
in battle or in exchange of resources.

Myths stacked up like values of belief, values of livelihood.

Slice off the excess—
the parts that cannot be used or do not fit.

Feed it to the people like mythology is television.

Let us find our values and morals from all the noise.

This is all nothing new.

Just a different name on the same beast
as it has evolved through time
alongside humans as they control the narrative.

Let’s name the beast—
call out the extra parts it has evolved,
like a mutated shadow nightmare
ready to consume the whole world
in its decaying beliefs
as their masks slip off their wilting faces.

Why continue when it's so obvious?

Where are the people who had spirit?

Will.
Soul.
Freedom.

Spirit.

Who gave back meaning to the land,
who gave people purpose for themselves?

Where is all the energy to fight this nightmare?

Are we not the adults now?

Where is my anti-monster spray
when my wage doesn’t meet my rent?

How do I stretch what isn’t there to begin with?

What choices do I have
when there is a gap embedded directly into my livelihood?

What is this gap?

Has it been here the whole time?

Why hasn’t anyone told me mine was so wide?

Have I been treading water this whole time?

I look around to see where land may be—
where I can finally rest my feet,
lay in the sand,
and dream of beach days once again.

All around me,
I see people falling into the ocean’s depth,
never to rise again.

I look up to see the clouds parting
for those who seem as if they can fly—
yet I see the strings harnessed to their chests.

When they are thirsty,
they say they will take from my ocean of woes,
help me find a swim pattern to stay afloat.

Yet I see now
that what they thirst for isn’t the water.

The strings that lift them
are part of an intricate pulley system.

As they pull up from their heights,
I am submerged—

my voice left gasping
for access to air.

In murky waters, I see so many faces—
of family,
and friends.
I see the face of an old neighbor.

So many faces below the surface,
so silent in the rising flood,
their eyes glazed over,
wired cords pulling them down.

I look down—
all around my limbs are cords,
each pulling me in different directions.

All pulled down by a chain holding me under,
welded to a stone,
left to drop in a trench.

I dive down,
hold my breath,
use the cords
and the chains
to submerge further.

I read an inscription:

Jessica L. Schmidt
Born: August 1990
Died: Never Existed