Pastiche
This is meant to sound like Juan Rulfo in Pedro Paramo, but it actually turned out to be something of my own making, maybe it didn't, I don't know. The weirdness of it came so easily though, I just had to share:
The new streetlamp shed light into the room.
"It's 6:20, you should get to bed"
"There is only olive oil."
I woke up, it was 6 am. The remnants of my distorted dream still grasping for existance in my head. Maybe if you wake up too suddenly your dreams can become reality. Something about olive oil.
In a daze I wandered downstairs. I was dressed. My mom is making omlett. Something is omitted, am I still dreaming? My mittens,
"Do you know how old those are?" my mother asks "At least twenty years."
I smile, because I have to, because I'm happy, she smiles back.
Outside my bones get cold.
People are everywhere. Outside the trees are white with winter. Inside there is laughter.
"I hope you're feeling better"
"This movie I saw...."
"Move out of the way"
I sip my tea.
It's like haiku in prose form :-)
The new streetlamp shed light into the room.
"It's 6:20, you should get to bed"
"There is only olive oil."
I woke up, it was 6 am. The remnants of my distorted dream still grasping for existance in my head. Maybe if you wake up too suddenly your dreams can become reality. Something about olive oil.
In a daze I wandered downstairs. I was dressed. My mom is making omlett. Something is omitted, am I still dreaming? My mittens,
"Do you know how old those are?" my mother asks "At least twenty years."
I smile, because I have to, because I'm happy, she smiles back.
Outside my bones get cold.
People are everywhere. Outside the trees are white with winter. Inside there is laughter.
"I hope you're feeling better"
"This movie I saw...."
"Move out of the way"
I sip my tea.
It's like haiku in prose form :-)