To my first unlucky Friday the 13th
I am dreaming. I am sleeping. Again, far from waking. This pain keeps me here, lost in quiet lulls of tainted reality. My body knows the movements that my mind long forgot, everything shifts in dark hues through the open window in my bedroom. I gaze around and wish to color my world, add fake images of life, and pull down the obviousness of this place. Depression flutters around the room like a bird trying to find the open sky. . .If only I had the energy to open the door and let it free. It becomes a fixture, something indelicate and constant; seldom directly affecting me but always obliquely. Suffocation comes in gentle tides; yet, I do not wake. . .Simply allow it to drift out to the sea beyond my vision or caring. The world grows smaller. Those few precious decent and extraordinary people come by frequently to wipe the sea salt from my lips and chase the bird from my house. The bird always returns, it finds this place a home more than I suspect I ever will.