the dreams begin before i fall asleep.

though i’m aware that i’m still awake, the words on the page will start to change as i drift off, or my surroundings will warp just a bit.  instead of a glass of water on the coffee table, there’s a half-filled cup of iced chocolate milk, with a paper napkin floating on the top.  instead of todd andrews and his pickle magnate inheritance case, the sentences i’m reading mean something else, something not-quite-right.

once sleep actually comes, the dreams launch full-force, intense and emotional.  they happen in several acts, i know, and i am always me and always the main character.  besides that, though, i never remember anything else.  when i wake up, pillow- and sheet- and blanket-prints covering my skin, all that’s left of the dreams is a feeling of resignation, of sadness, of frustration at being permanently stuck in a bad situation.

i think it’s because they cut the tops off all the trees outside my windows.