My preferred method of escape: flight.

Last night, I came home sick. I felt ordinary. I felt sick. Indulged in an uncomfortable slumber. By the twelfth hour, I couldn't take it anymore. That which we call "sleep". Ordinarily, I would feel secure in the safety which sleep provides. The excuse to dismiss yourself from the ordinary world. The planet Earth which we surmise to be our true existences. Yeah, right. In my dreams, I can kiss you away. Or kiss you back. I can brush my hair until you start to fall out of my curls. Sometimes, I can look into a mirror and see you. My reflection in you. What is a worldly existence, any way? That question means nothing to me. In my dreams, I am good at flying. The entire time I spend escaping consequence, both fair and undeserved... My preferred method of escape: flight. Some times I can time travel too. And by that, I mean, I can die. Usually, I am mindlessly convinced that death which is bestowed upon me is a final figure in a chain of events. Now, I am convinced it is an agreement. Death, an agreement. An agreement, a discovery. Death is only the beginning. I used to be so afraid to die. Now that's all I can think about.


The distance should weaken our voices, though strengthen our meanings. Though I'm not sure what effect the guilt or the indifference will have. You're making this really hard. But I'll take all the blame. Out of habit. Habitually that is, I am allowed the ability to forget your scent, your tone, your skin's hue. You've turned this whole love riot into a habitual ritual. I love, I die, I love, I die, I love, I die, I love, I give up. It's funny. How I don't find you funny anymore. I used to laugh out of bliss. Now my laugh is tainted with satisfaction. Is that what you wanted? Your leaving a thousand miles away and still satisfaction resonates in my bout of laughter? This is, exactly the final outcome we have worked for our entire six year quest. A laugh of satisfaction? You told me you hate that. Now I love it.