log seventeen

I’ve been dreaming quite a lot lately. I’m enjoying it. ‘All the lives I could’ve lived-’ what a nice notion. Idealistic, but nice all the same, even when thinking of what unpleasant things could come with it. Dreams and nightmares put into perspective both my yearnings and my blessings. They’re like those ice cream sample spoons, bites of different flavors, different experiences, but not enough to yield the satisfaction of a nice full scoop. Experience is my human treasure. What is a life lived if not understanding and feeling all of the human struggle and, simultaneously, pleasure that I could possibly taste?

Dreams are lovely. I wake up from one and realize how little I’ve done with myself. How I’m letting myself down. For the longest time, I thought I’d never have an interest in romance, until I had a dream that told my subconsciously perfect tale of star-crossed love. Now I tell myself I’m a hopeless romantic. Nightmares are a little different, but the idea is still there- I open my eyes in the middle of the night, spit to my side and cradle in the warmth of my bed. It feels cozier than usual- after all, moments before I was bleeding out on the cold streets by my mother’s blade. I straighten for a second to listen to my mum snoring away a couple rooms over. Nightmares are sweet, good dreams more bitter. I’ve always liked dark chocolate better, anyway. I like bittersweet things.