The nightmare

The nightmare

I begin to wonder if perhaps no one sees me. I don't utter a word, but no one says anything to me either. Maybe I am an apparition. Maybe I have died and am floating around looking at other people carrying on. Maybe I am visiting from another planet. Maybe my species cannot be identified by the human eye. No one seems to notice I exist. I am not sure if I do either.

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My own private fairytale

My own private fairytale

We would live happily ever after, the remnants of our eternity filled to the brim with milestones, coos, first babbling words, innocent giggles, and wide, chubby smiles. Then the fairytale was flipped, shattered and warped into a gothic nightmare. The princess holding her dead little prince in her arms, dressed not in white but in black, her bright world gone dark.

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I dreamed of houses

I dreamed of houses

I dreamed of houses. Houses we forgot we owned so the grass grew up tall, turned prickly and brown. Abandoned houses. Rundown, peeling paint, walls that fell away at a light touch. But wandering through those dream-rooms, some conscious neuron fired, and the realization slowly bloomed: Wait, we already have a house, a cozy life. How did we get here? What now?

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