Woke from another bad dream this morning. Tamer than the night before, when I was dangling from a hook above vicious dogs in a warehouse. This involved the psycho ex-store owner, and the newly retired (how nice for him) ball-less chef. Though neither were present, they co-directed this episode. Soft, muted memories at first. The hopeful early days, a silent plea to the universe to allow me to finally belong somewhere. Then the thick, slow spread of blackened red down windowpanes, blotting out everything.
Victim-hood is a state of stagnation. It serves you exactly the same as taking a daily dose of poison until you finally die. And yet you attend your demons daily. Hell, you set a place at the table for them at every meal. You seek their counsel on every single issue you inevitably fail to make a move on. You go to bed with your demons every night, so why are you surprised to see them staring back at you across the pillow at 3AM, your heart pounding in your chest and a ragged scream stuck in your throat?
There are letters that should have been written a long time ago. After they've left my urban zip code, one to travel a mere two miles away and the other several hundred, I expect three of my own demons to permanently fuck off.
11:43 a.m. - 2016-11-15
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