I wish that every time I fell asleep it wasn't because I passed out from exhaustion . One night where I can lie on the dreamscape, turn the lights off, feel the gentle waves of sleep wash over me. But here I am. Everytime I close my eyes, lighting quick images, too many to focus on, in any single frame. Reliving the past in a moment, all the fears from the future. A blink of an eye, a new day. Too tired to function. The way I love it. Another blink, dreaming in the day. Of what is for now. Am I living a waking dream, everytime I blink? Or am I just yawning away my life, one hour of sleep less each time.

Neon dreams reflected in the waves of the hopes we give to the world in the grey artificial ether. The streets lined with the faces of the citizens, wide eyed walking through with hunches shoulders and happy grins. The gutters over flowing with the over whelming stench of failure, failure to achieve those neon dreams advertised right above their heads.  Arguing remnants of the last nights alcohol fueled fighting. Hazy memories dredged up of childhoods past. A forgotten love of the walking of the streets, smoke on the air, the hazy street lights casting an indiscriminate over the wandering paths. Walking this path marveling at the thrills of life. Walking with a smile, the last you remember of it's kind. A hand in yours. A grey mass slowly floating away, becoming another part of the sky around you. Blending all together. Neon signs cast a harsh glare through the fog.

Look at the endless path of mirrors you walk down, stuffing your gluttony with the fabricated dreams you were told would always be achievable. Look in the mirror below you, and see the starving children clasping their hands at you, begging for just a scrap of a dream, so that they might sleep peacefully for once. You look above you, and see golden skinned gods with dreams that are so heavy, so tangible, that you think the mirror will shatter in any moment. You look ahead of you, seeing you, clasped hand in hand with a blurry faced figure, walking away from you, not listening to you shout as you want to know who you are. You don't want to look behind you. You saw something in that mirror staring at you from up front. Your eyes, so completely devoid of color, black pits of onyx that tore a hole through your heart just by seeing what might be. Behind you, a grayer version of you. Thinner. Looking down. He has none of the dreams you do now. Nothing floating above his head, no froth spilling down over his chin, no colors, no noise, nothing to show that he is alive. You turn away and cry out in the pitiful sobs that are the only thing you are capable of producing anymore, the first real emotion you've shown since you were in the mirror. The grey skinned monster that you were but never were, the dead ghost of the futures past, the bland, dry, **** flavor of the image, was wearing the biggest smile that you had ever remembered seeing.

Commodity. Is that all this is to me? Another way to show me that i can do something unique. That's all everything is, isn't it? Some way to say look at me look at me, I can write what people want to read! Whatever happened to being true to me?...me...me...who am I? Maybe that's the problem. I don't know who I want to be. Are you even supposed to want to be anyone? Are you supposed to want to be yourself? How's that possible, wanting to be yourself? You are yourself, only as long as you want to be I suppose.

Climbing those hills, those leviathan heroes from before our generations ancestors ancestors, great trodden clumps of clay and rock seemingly left their by a being greater than himself. Tell me, was it a purposeful throwing? Or was it a careless happenstance that those colossal titans were laid forever into the earth? Did those beings dream? Did they want to become those rolling hills? Were they held back by their own constructions? Were those ageless clusters of earth held back by the thin veils of confidence that plague us today? Are the trapped, as they are? Dreaming in that peaceful slumber right beneath our feet. Are their dreams imprisoned like ours? Do they illustrate the desire of their dreams on the paper thin walls they built? Do they scrawl I love you over and over just to see that someone could? Do those immortal pebbles wish to be human? Those leviathan heroes of old, dead and long forgotten, leaving behind the carcass of wonder and the sense of living through adventure.

Everyone treats January like the baby of the family even though she's older and colder than December

February just wants April and May to fall in love and for everyone to stop screaming at eachother over the dinner table

March usually isn't home, and when he is he isn't gone before to long, off on an adventure

April can't admit she loves May, and tries to not cry anymore on front of the family (they all hear her at night though)

May loves April dearly, and comforts her in those dreary night but can't ever ask her to love him back

June is the the one who doesn't want anything to do with the family, thinking he's to cool for that and would rather be with his friends

July goes with June to make sure June will be okay and to make sure he doesn't forget his family

August and September are twins and August is the louder more sociable one that everyone thinks is the one in charge of the house

While September actually runs everything behind the scenes, with a soft spot for January, his precious daughter

October is the only one concerned with keeping the house from falling to the ground, and everyone really loves him for that and he loves them back

November is the mom of the family and makes sure everyone has had enough to eat, but she dreadfully worries about June whenever he leaves

December stays in the attic usually and doesn't talk much to the others, as she's very old. She's just glad her family remembers her enough to celebrate her every year

Green hates red

Because red never gets sick

At Christmas dinner

Red hates them all for nothing

But would be devastated if he lost any of them  

Purple things she is too good for them all

But has a soft spot for yellow

Yellow is always to busy playing with her plants

To pay any attention to orange  

Blue would love purple if he ever

learned to stop weeping and playing his music

Orange always feels like an

unwelcome guest even though he's the

life of the family  

White has a little bit of everybody in

her, which is why everybody goes to

her for advice

And black was the drunken father who

refused to believe that they were all

part of him

Our family get togethers