I am very, very tired.
The last of the incense has burned out, and Whiskey is curled up in the chair, her little chest rising and falling. I like to think of what she dreams of-chasing bugs, dodging cars, or running in soft spring grass.
As for me, I don't dream that much at all anymore. For the most part, there are just holes-black, bottomless voids between sleeping and waking. I used to dream all the time as a child. They were disjointed-small fragments that cut through my sub-conscious like shards of glass that cut into my feet. But I still had them.
It could merely be a symptom of big-city life. Perhaps I shouldn't be worried at all. But I can't help it. It's unconscionably weird to me that I don't, and its taken up more than a little of my day-to-day life here.
The other half of it is spent in longing; wishing time would move faster, slower, or stop altogether-even if just for a moment.
In an effort to counter all of the melancholy, I have decided to do something positive. It occurs to me that I am in love. In the very hopeless, stupid, awkward sense of the word. So I am proposing to Chris. I don't know what brought all of this on, to be perfectly honest, but I know this-I am as sure of our love as I am sure that black holes exist, and that peanut butter tastes delicious with bananas. So I'm moving forward. Even if I don't quite know how to dream any more, I'd rather learn again with him than any one else on this lonely little rock.
In the meantime, I suppose I should just follow my instincts and sleep.
<3,
Grit
