Sweaters and hugs are sisters.

Underrated, everyday, and simple.
But somehow
Warm, comforting, loving.
A classic.

"These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air,
And, like the baseless fabric of vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with sleep."

-Shakespeare, the perpetual source of inspiration.

Insomnia had come knocking.
Insomnia is a Southerner, a belle who's smooth words and honied utterances trapped me in her company.

I was laying swathed in sheets, attempting to persuade Miss. Sleepless Night to call on some other hapless soul. Upon realizing a lost cause, I turned to the walls that had become my entertainment on evenings such as this.
Blobs of ink twisted into ribbons, which lopped into figures who jived and waltzed through the room.
They flirted, they fought, they played hide and seek like children, delighting with seemingly spontaneity.

But the charm was gone tonight.

The walls replayed the same stories, the same wispy characters mingling with the same friends.
It was like a over used recored, beloved, but dull.

I teetered on the verge of exhausted tears, why couldn't that wrenched ghost let me shut my eyes, and sleep?

What was sleep anyways? Was it really just a biological means of repair, of converting the day into data?
Or was it something more then that?
Was it a spirt of some higher being, the avatar of it's loving side?
The peace bringer, the soother, the safe guard from troubles.

If there was such a thing, I'd like to shake it's hand, I mused, and offer it a life long customer, and a desperate one at that.

Something stopped me though, half way through my theoretical business deal.
It was the jolt of surprise that coursed through Insomnia's veins. The kind of surprise that only occurs when your convinced you've got something snug in your grasp, and ****.
It's slipped away.

There was a new shadow on the wall, a shadow that all the other inky dancers respected highly. You could tell by the slight bow of their nebulous heads, and the atmosphere of admiration.

I propped myself up against downy pillows, not quite believing what I was seeing.
This cloud like creature was winding it's way across the ceiling, a deep grey mass. Paralyzed by it's presence, I gaped as it stopped right in front of me.
It looked like liquid smoke, with two gleaming wings and twin small, delicately curved horns, wrapped in a light breeze. It had no mouth, but owl like eyes, bright with deep, calming wisdom.

The moment this otherworldly being looked at me, I immediately felt a sense of relief. Insomnia was being called away, she had to pack up her sticky invitations and leave.  HE had told her to mind her own troubles, and she didn't want to meddle with the boss man, now did she?
A discontented huff, and that was all that remained of my genteel personal demon.

It appeared that was the end of the winged sprites visit too, for he was nowhere to be found.

Not that I searched too hard.
I, finally, fell into the Land of Nod.

Have you ever walked down the street, on a calm summer day, and looked at the sky?
At the perfect, even blueness of it all. The carefully planned haphazard precision of the clouds?

Have you ever stared, and thought,
What if it wasn't real?


What if it was a canvas painting. A marvelous painting thrown down in a fit of  artistic rage onto a little doll set.
Our doll set.

Us.

I had a dream last night.



I dreamt of brick walls and chocolate milkshakes.

Of girls with carmel colored skin, and old houses with steep roofs. 

Of tired eyes and bomb threats.

Of children's toys and escape artists. 

Of rainy days and draining exhaustion.

Of hot emotions and a quiet happiness. 



I had a dream last night,



But I don’t know what I dreamt about.

In the good book, theres a heaven and a hell.
Theres also limbo.
Purgatory.
Oblivion.
Siberia, for the more literal minded.

Siberia...
Siberia?

Wouldn't the Earths gifts pale in comparison to whatever golden higher realm there may be?
Wouldn't the Earths miseries shrivel into mere nuisances compared to tortured dwelling?

Wouldn't the Earth therefore be...
Middle ground?
Siberia?
Oblivion?
Purgatory?
...
Limbo?

Children's crude drawings adorn my journal.
I like it better that way.

Adolescents reek with self possession, **** sure beyond measure.

Adults are weary of such foolishness, theres more important things to do.

But children, children just don't care.
They couldn't mind less about others thoughts.
They don't worry about whats to be done in Two weeks.
They relish now.

Thats why I prefer children's doodles on my journals.
They inspire me to be more child like.