Dreaming

I don't dream anymore. Or, rather, I do, but my dreams blend so seamlessly into my reality that it really isn't worth the trouble to distinguish them anymore. Last night, I dreamt I was in a sunlit room, eating cereal and writing, and then I woke up and I was in the room and just picked up writing where I had left off. I am living my dreams, which is odd, because isn't that what everyone wants to do? If I had a choice of what I wanted to do, I would never pick living my dreams.

I blame all of this on an even three-way split between powerful medication, the slow and rocky maturing of my mind, and my treacherous heart going about the process of healing itself. Bah. Love sucks. Like that hasn't been said a thousand times before. And even though I am in love, again, because I am a hopeless romantic and quite a needy person (which no one will ever believe) my mind keeps racing ahead at a thousand words a minute. It must be my calendar, because how else would I know that spring is coming? It has rained and rained in the desert, so that a river has formed behind my house and ducks have somehow appeared on its brown surface. Cold wintry rain. Unforgiving.

After Christmas, I stole a string of lights and hung them on my bedroom wall.