I am more melodramatic in my sleep.
Well, my arm isn't better, but I have a closing shift in 3 and a half hours.
But, money needs to be made, and bills need to be paid, and mouths need to be filled, and I still need a place to sleep. So it doesn't really matter that my arm isn't better.
I had a dream last night that I was pacing at the top of a brick wall, just wide enough for me to stand comfortably, and I'm watching the people on both sides. And on one side there are people stabbing each other with knives and spears and swords and tearing out their hair and cutting off their hands and ripping out their eyes, and keeping every detatched part in little burlap sacks tied to their backs.
And on the other side flowers are blooming, and ivy is turning, and birds are chirping, and swooping to inspect what lies below the thick blanket of flowers and moss and tall grass and foliage. It's very still, and it's very peaceful, and it's very beautiful. But if you look closely, and lean over the wall, and strain your eyes, you'll see that the ivy turns through amputated limbs, and flowers are sprouting out of empty eye sockets, and birds are making nests with the blood matted clumps of hair that can be found here and there. So I take a seat on the wall, and let my legs dangle over either side.
I watch the people leaving their fallen behind, and staggering under the weight of their bounty, and whistling songs about profit and prestige. When the last of the standing disappear into the distance, I watch the silence overwhelm whats left of the bodies lying on the carpet of blood and moss. Sooner or later, their remains will rot, and the purity of nature will take over, and make the most of the destruction left behind.
It's very still, and it's very peaceful, and it's very beautiful.
But, money needs to be made, and bills need to be paid, and mouths need to be filled, and I still need a place to sleep. So it doesn't really matter that my arm isn't better.
I had a dream last night that I was pacing at the top of a brick wall, just wide enough for me to stand comfortably, and I'm watching the people on both sides. And on one side there are people stabbing each other with knives and spears and swords and tearing out their hair and cutting off their hands and ripping out their eyes, and keeping every detatched part in little burlap sacks tied to their backs.
And on the other side flowers are blooming, and ivy is turning, and birds are chirping, and swooping to inspect what lies below the thick blanket of flowers and moss and tall grass and foliage. It's very still, and it's very peaceful, and it's very beautiful. But if you look closely, and lean over the wall, and strain your eyes, you'll see that the ivy turns through amputated limbs, and flowers are sprouting out of empty eye sockets, and birds are making nests with the blood matted clumps of hair that can be found here and there. So I take a seat on the wall, and let my legs dangle over either side.
I watch the people leaving their fallen behind, and staggering under the weight of their bounty, and whistling songs about profit and prestige. When the last of the standing disappear into the distance, I watch the silence overwhelm whats left of the bodies lying on the carpet of blood and moss. Sooner or later, their remains will rot, and the purity of nature will take over, and make the most of the destruction left behind.
It's very still, and it's very peaceful, and it's very beautiful.