Old Stuff - Part VIII
May 30, 2003
It's a spinning, turbulant, harsh thing. It makes him feel like he's in a whilrwinded tunnel. It helps him lose sleep at night. It's constantly there, whenever he enters the real world. It's black and yellow and red. It makes him see through blinded eyes. He doesn't know where it comes from or why it's there. It's so much more real to him than anything. There is no escaping its wrath. Thunder beckons, lightning strikes, but still he lied there thrashing. The ocean is engulfing him in hot flames. He knows he won't last much longer. Flashbacks come and go; red, hot, then blue and cool. Pouring rain made from boiled mercury meets his skin and beads of sweat roll down his cheeks. He thinks about running, but there is no way out of it; no walls, no shelter. He can't leave because it never ends. Hot lava pours, then dry ice rolls in. It sucks him up into its turbulant reality. But, reality is no longer an issue, for this is reality. Mercury keeps falling, and falling and falling, yet never reaches the bottom. There is no real way to escape its wrath.
His alarm sounds. He stumbles downstairs, pours himself black coffee and enters the dream world.
I remember writing this. I really have no idea what I was thinking, but it's one of my favourite things I've written. I'm thinking about clipping off the last paragraph, because I don't know if it even makes sense. Hmm... I really like the picture I create though, if I do say so myself.
~Sarah