if only there were a little chip in my head that could take my internal ramblings (especially those that seem to plague me while driving) and write them down. so many thoughts run though my head about things i'd like to write and say, but they rarely seem to linger with me long enough to write or by the time i the chance does come along my motivation to do anything other than mindless things (listen to music, watch tv, star off into space). there is also that fact that by the time i do get the chance to sit down and write my parnoid/self-depricating self has had time to whisper discouraging thoughts of how what i wish to say is pointless and no one really would care to read my insane ramblings.
i suppose it really doesn't matter. the chip in the head probably would end up being more trouble than it is worth.
|My newest adventure is underway. It has lead me to take up residency in a new blog,|
Like the Feathers of an Arrow (affectionately known as LFA).
...don't open...don't throw away... is not disappearing completely (not yet),
but postings here will be limited.
Monday, October 31, 2011
I'm not sure how it works exactly. I've tried puzzling it through a time or two, but have yet to draw any definitive answers. At first I thought nothing of it. Why would I? It wasn't until I came across the article in the paper that the first tickle of oddity crept up. There were so many details that matched. Still one main piece was incorrect. The photo in the paper looked nothing as I had dreamed. After a couple more coincidental news episodes, I finally started to realize that there was way more to my dreams than I could have imagined. So, I have decided to starting documenting my dreams and where necessary the real life happenings that coincide with it. Maybe it's all in my head. Maybe these coincidences are just that, coincidences. Maybe I need to watch less television and stop reading the newspaper. Maybe...I'm simply crazy. What ever the case may be, I intend to figure out what exactly is going on.
Melissa closed the journal and sighed. Her eyes looked from the beautifully bound red leather journal to the newspaper lying beside her right arm. Nothing about the person in the picture looked familiar except for the smile. Three nights ago she remembered looking into a mirror and delicately painting those exact lips luscious pink. It was not unusual for her to dream as though she were someone else. She could hardly remember a time where she was herself in a dream. Her fingers traced over the lips jogging the feeling of excitement and anticipation she had felt in the dream. She shook her head firmly and pushed herself back and up out of the chair. "I'm not going there," she said to herself. "Not again."