Saturday, December 20, 2008

dreams dreams dreams

Dreamed in poetry, in words and images in an inexplicable overlay, which is weird because I usually subscribe to the "can't read in dreams" thing.  
Dreamed in a series of photos; the body of a young boy recently buried in a wooden crate, his face was electric-blue.  In the photos he was still half covered in dirt, over-saturated with color and grittiness.  His mother was buried next to him but she was only in the last photo.
Dreamed about a children's book, it had a purple cover and a red, velveteen lining.  The inside was signed by all my parents' friends, like a yearbook, and I was looking over them thinking how much I resent them because I've always felt like they hate me, since I got "weird," and went looking for god and found emptiness.  I shouldn't say that as it's not pitiful and I don't remember ever really coming to a conclusion, just a sudden shift of facts.  Maybe I'd be different if that guy hadn't shot himself in the head in seventh grade, maybe if someone had noticed I wore the same clothes for about two weeks and just kind of, i don't know, veered off-course.  Maybe if I hadn't lost my virginity to his brother a year later, and gotten dumped the next day.  Maybe I'd be different.
Most of my parents' friends were doctors.  

These are not pitiful thoughts, I am just having my morning thoughtful time, as I am wont.
Doing a lot of thinking.

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