Whenever my life settles into unbearable routine, my dreams start acting up. Everything becomes awash in bright and bejeweled strokes, memories and yearnings cut open and bled dry, their truncated limbs spliced together to create some phantom creature inclined towards haunting and ponderous thought. An alternative North Korean reality with a savage incumbent monarchy and large airships prone to spontaneous combustion. A moment of listless love stretched out to unbearable lengths and depths (an exhausted narrative that's grown snide and senile). An embrace.
I take nothing from them. But, on nights like this, nights when the orange light falling through the filter of my bedroom blinds seems to float and dance on my quiet, timid breath, I find myself unwilling to fall back into them. On nights like this, nights when the burbling patter of rainfall becomes the frenzied heartbeat of my neighborhood, I don't want my dreams prevailing over my small, petty reality.
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