I wish to be assailed by sleep
–then the dreams, bizarre, oblique.
Like that one time ascending the spiral
staircase then a fissure, like a tear.
What’s real distended into dream.
Is that how memory erases itself
or at least makes tomfoolery of what’s
there? Am I the patron of dreams being
patronized? Would you even drive my
vague hopes to just extinction?
Is this a prelude to death?
Death, the mother of all dreams:
a green, implacable dream?
Ah Shakespeare, our little life
rounded with a sleep.
Day 15. Mid-point. Thoughts of giving up? Me too. After the heaviness of Good Friday, today’s Easter vigil. It’s not that it’s too much to bear. It is and it isn’t. It is because things take a toll on oneself. It isn’t because one can always pick oneself up after a fall. So if you’ve fallen, please pick yourself up. It’s not that one can pray for no natural disaster to befall. But one can pray for the means to survive it. I can’t wait for tomorrow–Easter. Easter is when life conquers death isn’t it? Speaking of which, the prompt is to use the phrase “That one time”. That one time he walked through the valley of death but lived to see the sun again. So do not forget to pick yourself up. Like Lazarus.