Small Threads of Reality

My bed of reality is a hammock made of spider silk. I would say that insomnia is something I have learned to live with, and a way I have. However there are times when it completely gets in the way and there is nothing I can do.

Sometimes I walk down the street and the cement becomes spongy beneath my feet, I feel like my shoes sink down and spring back lightly when I take a step. The air is thick and milky and hard to breath, so thick in fact I have to recall on my time in the womb to remember how. Sights become sounds and sounds become sights, the exhaust from the 48 bus drips off the branches of the newly planted trees giving them no hope of a healthy life, I can see the sounds of the bus as is drips down the bark like slow syrup over the edge of the bottle. If the cement weren’t so spongy I would try to do something about it.

But I can’t, because this is the point I wake up from in a dream I thought was reality. For some reason spongy cement and visual sounds do not always register as abnormal in a lucid state of dreaming, just like watching the skin melt off a person doesn’t register as all that serious in these non-reality existences.

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