Last night I dreamt I was on the fringe of a nameless city that converged with an industrial area. Everything was grey: gravel, building, even a nearby body of water. I was on top a crate, fretting about how I would get down. I looked to my right and saw a double-self struggling to climb up a small assemblage of earth and stone. I looked back down and gave a good aggressive jump, landing awkwardly; for a moment my arm felt like it was stuck to the ground. On my feet again, I came across a small discarded selection of notebooks and clothes and other miscellanea. Upon closer inspection they were all personal items from years ago. In a minor panic, I collected them into a bag and left.
I woke up today and it was snowing – frenetic waves of white coalesced into a wooly blanket on my balcony. It felt as if I woke up in Ontario. I wanted to tell someone I love them. I don’t know who this someone is; it’s just a desire. “All is vanity” - the heart is vain. Or is it all done in vain?
Is there a reason to say anything? Or only a need or desire? When I say reason I mean a universal. I haven't given up looking for 'it'. Thus I'm open to ridicule. But ridicule can be purifying - a snowfall of it's own.