I have a dream, in the sense that in my sleep I come alive.


I am enchanted by the non-reality, by the ease at which I
could sink into the beautiful despair of my unconsciousness.
Deep into a darkness that holds more light and more promise
than the harshness that comes with awakening. In my dream,
in my enchantment, I am whole. Imagine that.

I often allow myself a moment of inner reflection. I see
myself how I wish to be and like a mirror when I reach for
that wish it reaches right back but all I feel is the cold
glass of disappointment rather than the ever elusive
porthole to another me.

I want to hide. Hide under the proverbial duvet in an effort
not to escape a new morning but to escape an old life. I
feel trampled and the only one to blame is me. I am at that
turning point where I can clearly see that people have only
treated me how I allowed them to. A lack of strength, a lack
of insight on my part has made me open to the overbearing
influences of others. 

When I breathe, sometimes even that is painful as I try to
oxygenate my distracted heart. It shouldn’t be, such an
integral part of existence should be performed without
thought. Performed as easily as I gave my anxious heart an
unworthy focus and readied it to be broken. And break it did
with a crescendo of shattered pieces.