and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

Maybe.

Maybe I've stopped experimenting. I've stopped trying and changing and improving. I've stopped the motivated process of growth. If I was a cog in the machine before then I was a raw widget, unrefined. Society took me out from beneath the metal stamping machine, and it molded me. Sanded me down, smoothed the rough edges. Sculpted as it saw fit. Now... now I fit into the machine. I'm a cog a widget a wheel. From now on out it's wear and tear, fix and replace. No more sanding or improving. No more making better.

Maybe.

Maybe not. Maybe it's the dawn of a new day and I'm just awaking and I have my whole life ahead of me. Maybe... just maybe.. I am but a rough prototype of my final self. A sketch. A blueprint not yet approved. An idea on paper, not yet executed. The world has some thoughts about me.. has found a place and a time for me.. but I'm not sure if I want to go there. I may not go there. I may just stay behind. I may sneak out the back and run away faster and faster.

Maybe.

Maybe I'll write about it, like a rough sketch - the idea being mulled and thought about but not committed to. Maybe I'll say maybe. Maybe that'll be enough. Someday, somewhere, for someone, maybe is enough.

Maybe.

Maybe the potential is killing me like the weight of a good book. Maybe the pressure is like a thousand men pushing back at the door you're trying to get through.. shuffling about, feet stomping on other feet and sweaty hands pushing through to the front, pushing at the door, making sure you don't get through.. but even a thousand men.. they make mistakes. Individual mistakes, sure, but even mistakes as a whole.. like a snake without a head, writhing and twisting in the dirt, doing itself no good. Maybe the mass of men the force will shift. Maybe it will not be able to control it's own power like a leaderless faction. Implode in on itself if only for a moment. Maybe, in that split second of questionable doubt, maybe you or I or the whole of society, squished into it's smallest form, can make it through the crack in the door.. out the other side and down the alley way running running and glancing back in fear but running and not seeing anything coming and then free. Bursting through to the other side to the street to the open air and the trees and the light. Free.

Maybe.