(no subject)
Oh, it's always such fun to go to sleep fine, mentally balanced, and wake up in a dark cloud of depression. It's as if the sandman reaches into a separate bag of sleeping sand made just for me; a black velvet bag filled with large darkened chunks of tainted sand, not single grains, but multiple ones held together by an invisible bile the way salt bonds together with water. And this "special blend" of sleep-sand will bestow a grotesque depression in the form of subconscious dreams wherein I have to suffer through my very worst suspicions via inescapable, visual scenarios.
--
I saw her.
She was nice.
She was cute and small and blonde.
And nice, friendly.
And they were friends.
And there was nothing I could do but watch.
Bask in their happiness.
With a vile jealousy.
Revel in the fact that
that-is-not-me.
Won't be. Never will be.
Doesn't want me. Never will.
I'm not small and cute and blonde and "nice".
And just when I had started feeling better about my self. Thanks dreams.
Dear Mr. Sandman,
Maybe the next time you decide to gift-wrap depression for me you'll be kind enough to consider leaving me some Xanax for whence I awaken?
Thanks,
--
I saw her.
She was nice.
She was cute and small and blonde.
And nice, friendly.
And they were friends.
And there was nothing I could do but watch.
Bask in their happiness.
With a vile jealousy.
Revel in the fact that
that-is-not-me.
Won't be. Never will be.
Doesn't want me. Never will.
I'm not small and cute and blonde and "nice".
And just when I had started feeling better about my self. Thanks dreams.
Dear Mr. Sandman,
Maybe the next time you decide to gift-wrap depression for me you'll be kind enough to consider leaving me some Xanax for whence I awaken?
Thanks,