In reading my previous blog post, that I’m sensitive to what happens to me seem pretty clear.
I wish I knew why.
Something about the way the world functions in this day and age prompts one to believe they can be more than what the world dictates them to be. From this line of reasoning, life becomes a zone of psychological danger, the edge of infinity looming ever so close to the path, where souls fall into the abyss on a daily basis.
Yet my sensitivity makes this danger so acute, as if each moment is critical, depending upon the most crucial of judgments.
And if the cards fall all the wrong way, the cracking point materializes; and it’s into this crack where dreams descend like falling leaves on warm autumn evening.
In the meantime, I had lasagna microwaved and serve from a box for dinner, before crawling into my twin bed to watch the four walls of this place close in on me. Here I’ll sleep until the nightmares come, where I’ll find myself kicking, convulsively, to keep my attacker at bay; and when I wake, my sock will be soaked in blood from having actually kicked the wall.