The Edge Of Dreams

Even still when the lights are out, I crave the night light and I shout. I shout to all my memories and fears, and want everything to go away forever.

The crazy old cat lady who walks in a circle, finds her solace in cosmic sense. The universe gives me tuppence. The circle of life. The nursery rhymes of non existence play their harps and banjos to disjointed mocking rhymes. But this should be my time, for me to sleep. Where I go beyond the dreamer's edge and start counting sheep.

And yet their sheep noises shall not fill the night's almost twilight nightmare, in the joy's eclipse.

The little girls wooden shoes without an owner, hops about being worn by 19th century ghosts. If one may refer to themselves as a little girl, despite being old enough to make a toast. The knight of night calls forth my fright with his mushroom head crave my inner life force instead of blood. The old cat lady falls to the floor to brood. She picks up the wooden shoes with her mouth, and places them on my bed beside me. This is my cat lady, who always lives beside me.

She is no stranger in this house of mine.

My personal haven of the non divine. I fall into the world of non divine, longing for another life of mine, for as I write my story I dream of dreams I cannot dream or have dreamed before. For my dreams are merely dreams of replays of old life events, and imagined events that family could conceivably do if things have progressed in that particular direction.

Instead my reality had a bisection.

The section of dream and reality blurring gradually, slightly, and in innumerable detail. The dream was of the blond woman again, who pulls me from my waking dream, dragging me into a changed real world. A world where memories are not my own, implanted with societal expectations, expectations of working long hours with very little pay.

So I suppose one may eat a candy bar another day.

Or rather in my case, another night.

Sometimes the nature of freedom is hard to define, like being at once in the presence of the divine. For me there was the divine realization of no meaning, no worth, and lack of comprehension which plays back and forth in my mind like rewinding tapes about memories that should have been my own. After all they were not image manipulated, so therefore they must be true.

That's the detail that paddles you with a wooden shoe. Smack! Smack! There goes the wooden shoe on the butt of time, the object of jokes till the end of eternity. The blond woman showed me many things, like fairies with torn apart wings bleeding as they as for a longing caress of tenderness.

And yet I am my own tenderness.

One others cannot see, as I constantly imagine myself drowning along oceans at the edge of the bleed through.

The district of blurred memories.

The district of my memories of the sea.

Yet for me life is filled with mundane scattered images lacking details, despite the endless world of my mind. And I hear things more subtly as the days become longer and longer allowing me not to hear god awful country music tunes, where I long for my personal dream world with ancient rune landscapes.

The fairies craft themselves guillotine guns to chase after the idealistic dreamer. The original of my personal doubts.

I wake up screaming, I wake up still dreaming.

As memories are merely a dream.

I long for a reset button.

I was walking in the opposite direction, with the bus going toward a town called Smyrna, Washington. The landmarks were a mix of my old hometown, and some of the general feel of the are heading toward Tacoma.

I had my room mate waiting for me at home, and had just missed the Mormons that were visiting the house. I had previously tried getting disability, but the office said I was more than just able to jobs. They said I was hyper qualified to work in the office, where I would work as a Janitor till the end of time. I suppose that was inevitable. But that meant are taking the time to sue the office for a fake terminology (someone can't ruled be overly qualified by the SSI), or dealing with what I had at time I didn't want to do with the world of anything else.

As I drifted off to sleep at the bus stop, I found myself in a jail of crystals, guarded by deranged lizard knights. And their queen was a blue skinned white haired woman. She stared at me blankly as I tried to push the crystals out of the way. From time to time I was in and out of consciousness, trying to figure out a waking solution. But instead I almost missed my bus, so I waited for home.

At home I felt exhausted.

I never wanted to lose it all it as much in my life.

I woke back up in the world of crystals, a very cold world, and yet somehow could not feel anything. I could hear and taste in this dreams, and found that I tasted of the blood of roasted lizard men. The woman offered one of her lizard women as a peace offering. So why not? I roasted one and ate a piece out of her. Sometimes that's all you can do, in dream that make marginal sense.

I woke up and found myself in Smyrna, Washington. But wasn't right, and then I woke up again.

I was back in Milton, Washington. I felt I was put through a random content generator, and one can't explain to their psychologist how their own entire world is crumbling apart. And at times Milton began to mirror the crystals world, filled with shapes and creatures far strange than the lizard men.

I found my inner self.

My hunger for the self.

The rice with butter and brown sugar that had been a consistent staple gave way to finally getting our food stamps card refilled. We got quite a bit more money than what we had gotten last time, but I still have no idea how much longer it would last. For the card was only good for three months if we were determined able to work, and somehow this was apparently better than NashChat. We being on the second month, only just now figured out we could be the pizza at the local supermarket. For one of our neighbors had never went around to tell us with certainty.

Don't be to hard on her though, she gave me some weed. Frankly that's all I can really ask a stranger in Seatak, and normally you'll find people up here most of the time have a stick up their ass. I'm unsure if this is due to it being a hipster heavy area, or if people here are just dicks. I heard New York was bad as well. But when you right in the midst of societal cruelty, you don't care much if another state is more cruel. You only want the cruelty to end here.

And that's the thing about our society, the state like to focus on how much worse other parts of the world have it, and how much our culture must come over there and save it. And yet none of them have solved their shit here.

And they really need to solve their shit here.

Like under-qualified staffing at the "do you live in a motel or an actual address, come and find out today if you are deemed qualified to receive $250 dollars a month" scamming booth.

I've seen people get blood drawn there.

But for me it's simply a scam.





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