I've decided to sit and write something down now because I probably should. It's been a while, and I can feel the leisure slipping away like a dream cut short that comes wailing out of your stupid head in the morning and leaves you thirsty through the week. I had one recently. Some stage version of our old shit climaxed in its mediocre plot and left me sitting on a couch with a giant vulture, dead on the floor. For some reason I think that means I've won this battle, but it doesn't make me happy.
After the dream I dug myself a hole, got in, and stayed comfortably for a few days with my whatifs, nursing a bruise. Most of the time I just tried to conjure the images back but sleep kept bringing something new. I didn't have a say in the matter at all and that seemed to say everything.
Meanwhile, I got a meningitis shot and celebrated my father's 47th birthday. I completed a plot outline for a novel; attempted to create a plausible scenario for an earth that's hundreds of years older, drowning both physically and within a dichotomous economic situation.
I rode a bicycle for the first time since the crash that blossomed permanent scars on both my knees and somewhere inside me, I'm sure, though I don't think about that anymore. My defense has a brilliant gleam. But this week it was all that dream, mostly that dream, some of that dream. I watched it slip out of the frame, like a balloon shrinking into the sky as I biked down streets that have already forgotten you.
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