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Doing the Math
I was eight years old, again
travelling down winding driveways chipped here and there with gravel and dirt
to my right, the opposite of what you'd see in daylight
a sand volleyball court, its dilapidated net blowing pathetically in the wind..
is now a gaping rectangle in the ground, keeper of ghouls and darkness so vast it makes my hair stand on end
backwards geometric shapes draw themselves into my nightmares, like two planes have been crossed and flipped -- a mirror giving life to an evil that is not seen by the conscious mind
I wish I could say that I recognize the tells in my dreams, but that isn't me
recurring scenes dance vividly against my eyelids and I wonder if they're trying to tell me something
or our brains cycle through the fluff until it is time to pull out the deepest parts of ourselves,
the old haunts, the me at eight years old
a dream is a product of our being- a nightmare, the quotient of all that tears us apart
isn't that what life is? the sum of all parts?
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