Stomach aches. Mind itches. Something scuttles across the roof, perhaps a rat, perhaps a possum. A very large rat, if rat it be.
Tomorrow I will have to get up and exist and drag myself through another day, and tomorrow night I'll sit up late and then eventually go to bed, only to have to drag myself up and through Tuesday, an endless procession stretching out across the weeks with no break in sight.
Weeks, months, years, hours, seconds. Better to mark them in words than in counting lines on the face. If it wasn't for the words, I would forget them. Often I do; I come across a page scrawled three years ago and it says "Was this really me? Who is the strange creature who wrote this? Are these memories meant to be mine?" The words stir memories no more vivid than the recall of dreams, less ensnaring than the dreams you wish you could fall back asleep in to. Or is that only me?
Do you have them, those dreams that make you hate the alarm clock and wish for nothing more than to turn back down into the bed, warm and drugged back into the sleep and then the dream, those dreams that you can never quite remember and certainly never describe or explain, but fill you with a yearning for some other magic life?
Dreams are where I spread my wings.
