.a night's visit.

 The exotic creatures from those like fairy tales awoke. No longer were they held tightly by the binds of a book. More colours than the standard pencil box could even begin to hold. Huge, miraculous feathered birds flew away like giant fire-breathing dragons, their golden wings took off into sun-light starry nights. I too, fly with them, on their giant backs, and to them, I weigh nothing. I am air. I take view of the green, luscious earth  beneath me. The smell of dew permeates through the thick, fog air. There is music in the breeze, an orchestra of leaves plays a familiar tune.

 And then I switch violently to a different place. A place where I could almost smell the ocean, and savor the salty water on my taste buds. Swimming with whales on rippling waves was an old occurrence, a commonality in my day. We could understand each other, and I felt the ripples across their grey, rough skin. Scars from past wounds are like crevices. I put my hands in their mouth, and feel the plankton rush in between the baleen of my friends' giant jaws. Here there is no danger, only peaceful serenity that couldn't be stolen from even the meanest and most ruthless bandits. Such beauty--a whole new world. A world that will soon be stolen away. As the alarm clock yells at me, I disappointingly open my eyes. Reality hits like a train wreck, and I lay motionless in bed, the downy comforter still has me swallowed whole. I cringe and grimace at the long day ahead of me.Why is it that I always get awoken from the good, wondrous, magical dreams?  Not that the scary, bloodcurdling nightmares (the kind that send chills up the spine and  leave one eerie) are not amazing in the sense that one's brain would even think of that during slumber, but.... Once fully awake, I realize that I am no longer in a fairy tale. This is reality. Realness. As I crawl out of bed, my feet hit the cold floor, and I look for the nearest warmth--my coffee cup. 

Isn't it beautiful? I am itching for tattoos again......can't stop.

Shreds.

Ripping, slicing, slashing--the hacking of inter-being. Being dissected and severed. Now like an ancient book, discovered and open for the world to see. Hiding nothing. Camouflage wiped away. Skin exposed and bare like  battered, wounded flesh. Gaping. No red curtain to hide behind, it's been rolled away. An audience. No applauds. A show. A magic trick. Whips cracking, microphones crackling, static, a thumping heartbeat pulsing blood through every vein and capillary. Lungs move frantically through a ribbed cage of aching bones. A deep breath to calm the nerves, and a hoarse, daunted answer. 

Celestial Sphere.

The skies always get to me. Their colours and shapes. Giant, puffy clouds of white or grey. I write this knowing full well that you, nor anyone else will understand what they mean to me. I will try to explain.In Chicago the heavens are big. They are more colossal than any world I have ever seen. In D.C. they are meager and clustered with large, over-sized buildings. The firmament of the Dakotas are safe. When I am absent from them they take on a whole new meaning, they suddenly become even more alluring and beautiful. Encompassing and whole. Perfect.Complete. Home.
I find myself taken back as I roll down gravel roads and gaze at the beauty of golden wheat and fresh cut bales of hay, but I find myself swallowed and eaten by the beauty of the skies. I want to create more life in the wild blue yonder, construct new roots and pictures with new faces and prettier pieces from the vault of heaven. I want to see more. So much more.