Lost Journal Page

Day 37 (unsure)

I had the dream again. That’s not right, a dream means sleep, and I don’t know…

Maybe not a dream then, but other words are scarier, so I’ll say “dream”. Hallucination sounds so – irrevocable.

Three birds screech, constantly. At each other, at me, at nothing. The only time they’re silent, well, less noisy, is when they feed. They’re ravenous, seeking always anything to devour – so long as it means taking it from someone else. I’ve watched them turn away from offering made to appease them only to turn on one another all teeth and noise and fury.

I wake up with scratches, still with the alcohol on my breath that is my only means of escape. Am I dreaming then? Are these things happening? Please, it can’t be real, can’t…?

What if they are? What if the sun and blue sky and warm water are the dreams? What if days spent hauling lines until my hands are raw are my life and swimming with sea turtles and warming myself on the sand are my mind trying to keep me sane? I don’t know. I don’t want to know. The sun is coming up and lighting the clouds glorious shades of Heaven and whether I’m waking to it or lapsing from sanity I prefer this to the other.

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A beginning?

As the panic spread, so did the smoke.  Turns out when reality itself is on fire it creates great gouts of acrid smoke.  You can see the tear for miles – unless it’s foggy, or raining.  At night you can see them from even further as the edges burn sodium-bright through the smoke, like a string of Satan’s own firecrackers tossed into the street.  The tears burn, so we call them smoke.

What they are, are rifts.

They’re doors.

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My shiny new blog…

As the name suggests, if I can kick myself hard enough to actually do it, sometimes I’ll write here.  Hopefully it’ll be good, maybe it’ll be trash, but words on (cyber)paper will be a start!

Copyright Dustin Clark, 2016 (just to cover the lawyer stuff)

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