“Do you think because you touched me you know me?
You’re just a boy and I have galaxies growing inside of me”
Mornings and I have a pretty serious love-hate relationship. I hate mornings and I generally seriously dislike people who seem to be effortlessly perky morning people. But then there’s a sort of charm to waking up early, while the whole house is still hushed. Making some breakfast, and just enjoying the smells as it cooks, or as you toast bread, open the box of cereal, pour orange juice… whatever. Then to curl up with your breakfast and a book or a movie that’s only just loud enough to hear as the pale sun’s rays peek around the not-yet-opened curtains. I even like sitting down to work when it’s early, sometimes. I feel that I can take some time to just look at my messages and do nothing important for a while. I’ve got the time. I can take a slower pace. Take more breaks. It’s kind of nice.
But then so is sleeping in, and I think despite anything listed above, I’m still heavily in favour of sleep.
Credits under the cut
I feel like I’m being gaslit… but that’s the nasty thing, isn’t it? You just can’t tell. Everything feels like it’s 2 inches to the left, and a half-inch forward from where it used to be. It gets my hackles up. A sickening prickle at the base of my spine. Every step feels like a mis-step, and I’m ready to fall face-first into whatever it is that catches me.
Were those drapes blue? Wasn’t that plant on the left?
And then it gets personal. My friends don’t seem to remember what I do. I feel like I’m slipping into someone else’s life, barely distinguishable from my own. I’m in the wrong place. The wrong body. I thought we had dinner together last week… or was it the week before? It starts with simple things- things that are easily mistakable. You make concessions. Maybe you’re just mis-remembering. Everyone does, we’re only human, right? But it starts to add up. How much can one person really forget before they start to question their own mental fortitude? Spanned out over a long enough period of time, you might never. Small things, here and there. Tiny changes. Minuscule; until your whole world is different and you concede that it was ever thus.
And what would I do if I knew for sure? If I retraced the steps? If I found out who or what was doing this to me? What power in the universe, to move me molecule by molecule into someone else’s life? It would drive anyone mad to face that, don’t you think? At this point I’m almost there, as it is.
I’m just not sure about anything anymore. There’s a whole ‘nother life in a dream that I remember; I think it might be real. Might have been real.
I don’t know what to say… or to whom. It’s not safe.
Hot summer days.
Days on the beach, days with friends. Days of screaming seagulls, sand between your toes, ice cream dripped on your favourite shirt, and surprise sun showers. Days for holding hands- but not for too long. For wearing wide-brimmed straw hats and great big sunglasses and feeling like a movie star. Running barefoot as quickly as you can down the road to the corner store for ice cream.
Summer nights are warm. The pavement still keeps some of its heat from the sunny day. The lights blink on and shimmer in the clear night air. The Ferris wheel glitters in primaries, and the thick smell of tiny doughnuts and cotton candy moves on the warm breeze. You’re not sure what’s being said, but you’re laughing. Exhausted and happy, and only somewhat regretting wearing high heels. Kissing and falling in love, if only for tonight. Spending your savings on little pieces of summer to take home with you. Kick your shoes off and fall asleep naked with your fan humming away on your nightstand. Rest, ready for the next day.
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