Vines burst through my eardrums, working their way up, weaving patterns into tressels of thought hiding behind the roses.
Spreading, twining more tightly, coiling like springs around me, only expanding faster, longer, and pushing into hidden places.
Flowering in corners I shouldn’t want to reach. I find myself leaning toward the light, grasping at broken sunshafts,
and when I’m shaded, I trace the length of the vine, the mark your voice has left behind, just to see how deep it goes.
This is a piece I wrote today for NaPoWriMo.
I’ve been writing still, but I kind of withdrew from my online communities for the past couple of weeks, so I haven’t been posting. I’m not going to post all of them here since that would be a lot of catch-up, but you’re welcome to check out the other ones in my NaPoWriMo gallery.
Dusty feet running, walking, dragging down a dirt road with no end. It makes me think maybe the world is flat and drops off in a hole filled with water a hundred feet deep, but we are not surprised to find it. We push down to the bottom with lungs that shouldn’t breathe but do and we claw upward through pounds of impossible pressure. We break the ceiling and grin and gasp and redefine life for the ones who have merely lived it.
I notice things you don’t, like the way the salt shaker is exactly three centimeters further from the ketchup than the pepper and the drunk man one seat over has a child’s palm tattooed on his left arm and how the ice melting on your lips made me thirsty.
There are fourteen ways to leave a lover, but she only ever needs one. The moon knows the shape of her face better than any man, because at the end of the day, she’s still looking for something that doesn’t exist.
Six hundred days without rain and the ground feels like the dust of seven suns brushed off the feet of galaxies as they passed, robes of stars pulled above their ankles as they stepped on earth.
We look each day for clouds, spend our nights backwards, noses to the sky, waiting for the universe to return. We do not search for water, nor watch the grass whither. We look only for a shadow on the horizon.
When the rain comes it will start as a promise, a whispered hush from one star to another, a kiss from a blushing sky to a desperate earth. It will crescendo and push us down and flood us and we will cease to be.
I dream weird things. I dream a lot. I dream weird things a lot.
Last night I dreamed these things, in no particular order:
I was in a store and realized the shorts I thought I had on were actually men’s briefs. I walked through the whole store before I realized my gaffe, and made my husband go get me a pair of shorts while I hid between racks of clothes. Interestingly, no one seemed to care that I was pantless but me.
I had a flashback experience where I saw the place Hagrid was born. It was beautiful—high up in the mountains, impossibly pale blue sky. Hobbit-like village, if hobbits were 12 feet tall and lived on mountains. Young Tom Riddle traveled back in time to kill a pre-Hogwarts Hagrid. His best buddy Gharj (second boss in Eternity Vault in SWTOR) came to his defense and rescued him. They were best friends forever from that point on. It was actually pretty touching.
I was playing some kind of real-life game where you shoot guns at other people. They don’t die, of course, but somehow they are real guns. I’m not sure how that works, but it made sense to me then. I came into a match halfway through, and it was clear that the players here had been snipers. The room was all white, everyone was wearing white clothes and facepaint, and there were little sniper perches set up from these white pentagon-shaped boards that could be snapped together. One of my friends was in the match, and he was concentrating intensely on someone he was trying to snipe in the corner, so I snuck into the abandoned perch next to him. He didn’t see me, and he was covered in white paint, so all I could see was the outline of his eye protection. I was lining up my shot with my sniper rifle, which somehow had a heart-shaped barrel, when I woke up.