Wine would help

It doesn't always have to be in focus to get the picture.

Sometimes I wish I was a burning newspaper ember floating from a burn barrel out on the farm.  As I drift above the cornfield, almost above the peak of the barn, I would look below and see spread below me, a magical sight.  Stretched the length of the garden like pumpkins on the vine are visions of myself at different stages in my storied life.  Like a museum exhibit the display marks the progression of my character.  By nurture and surroundings I meld and mold, sometimes matching my surroundings and sometimes flying directly against their cold stony cliff faces.

In my mind there's a photograph, a collection of snapshots, of who i saw myself as at different times of my life.  none of them are me now but is that disappointing or is it a revelation? or is it both?  it could be merely a current misconception of myself.  is it a calling to be more and do more?  or is it just a twitch of the brain, a flashforward of a thought from years back, come to prick my current brain awake from its slumberous state?  the great beast awakens, stumbling around on sleeping legs, searching for a pawhold in the inky blackness of the cave.  it wanders toward the deep blue of early, early dawn barely illuminating the entrance.  the smell of pines reminds the beast where it lay its head and the events of the previous night come back slowly like puzzle pieces falling through a lava lamp and landing more or less in the proper order.  the wind sings an early morning hymn of welcome through the boughs above, and the beast looks about for a brook barely hinted at by the smell of wetness and a recollection of damp feet.  The brook must not be very deep.  There is much to do today; or is there anything at all?  the list is fluid, much like the brook; the perception is the viewer's alone.

And in the cave--nothing.  Outside the cave--everything.  How did the beast arrive here, and does it matter?  From where did the feeling of a need to move on arise?  Is it a valid feeling?  Should it be acted upon?  Until the answer is clear, what should be done?
A quiet, ominous sound from nearby bushes confirms the answer.  The enemy is too close and the time to flee has fleetingly flown.  Now is the time to stand, fight, deliver, conquer.
I'm slowly forgetting all the things that used to make me real.  Once up on a time there was a mighty large rock, halfway up a hillside on the northwest side.  Upon this rock's face were carved the characteristics of Luke:  hard working, hard living, yet with an eye and an ear for the beautiful.   An amphibian of unnatural skill and ability, I have melded and molded to match my current surroundings, yet the slimy weak Mid-American Spotted-Belly Salamander has not forgotten his inner Twin-Tailed Shark Face Mountain Lizard soul.  Is this growing up?  How do you hold on to that flame without burning your fingers?