The Hollow Art of Dreaming
a man thought of going fishing like he used to as a kid. he thought about it a lot. he imagined it a lot. he talked about it a lot, so much that some people believed him. and why not believe, since fishing’s such a common, easy thing? it was true that talking about it reminded him of the excitement of reeling in a big one or a nice sized mess like when he was a kid. it was true it reminded his heart a little bit of what it was like. so he talked about it a lot. and it was always gonna happen tomorrow. and then, it was gonna happen after his retirement. he talked about it a lot. you could say it was his dream of once again pulling the big ones from the rivers and ponds and lakes like he used to as a kid. you could say it was his dream. his fantasy. he lived with and on that dream, that fantasy, his art – in a sense. for what is art if not presentation or representation? in his case, presentation of a dream in representation and recreation from fragments of his past. and it was true that he only wished for a rekindling of the excitement of hooking another big one. so he lived with those dreams instead of ever putting on his boots and wetting a line in a friend’s farm pond. or ever taking a stroll with his tackle box and poles down to the river. instead, he lived with the dream of tomorrow that was never, ever gonna be nearly as satisfying as actually pulling a few of the big ones from any of the real lakes and rivers and ponds and oceans. instead, he spent his days luring all the fantasy fish he pulled from all the deep and shallow waters of his dreams. sometimes, when his dreams weren’t enough, he wished he had a fishing partner to blame. somebody he could blame for him never doing more than just talking about going fishing like he used to as a kid. but his father, who used to take him fishing, was long dead. so there was nobody else – nothing else – but his stupid dreams that were left to blame. but he couldn’t blame them either. cause once they were gone, there was nothing left.