dreams are real

yesterday when I lay down, I was running away, like I always do, and yet there I was,  falling down, into my own arms, loving it. The need to escape from the need to escape, the circularity of all reason, to bring me back down, because if gravities not here then where then? 

I wrote it across the inside of my forehead and tattooed his name on the back of my hand, so I wouldn't remember what I wanted to forget. Like an elephant, fumbling, feeling my way, through the blindfold, larger than life itself, never quite able to sense the whole thing at once.

And all these other planes of consciousness catching my drift, and the miracles that didn't happen to me,  impossibly plausible excuses for living like I am. And all these choices I couldn't face to make, or wake to something other than this constant re-arranging my of molecular structure,  twisting through my DNA, to prove I never cared anyway, or do I?  

Image by Alex Stoddard