Thoughts

365

I found this in the dream journal I used to keep, and it was dated the day after my birthday. I don't really remember writing this but, whatever. Not quite sure what it means, or why it's so weird.

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There are 365 ways to fall, maybe more. Elbows hit the wall. The ants crawl towards your jaw and you regret what you saw, what you shouln't have seen. The gloss on the carpet has a rosy red tint, a foreboding glean that's not quite a sheen, much less a shine. Touch with your fingers the words you have spit. And you feel like a pig being roasted alive on a spit, surrounded by natives in a dark fiery pit. With the winds waving and the waves crashing. Inching, itching, crawling in your own skin. You won't ever be happy again. And halfway through towards one-eighty-two, every temperament blew and out with the birthday blues. Every one of those candles, that light, so very hard to handle.