Prose, January 2, 2009 at 10h03
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This morning, I woke up without any idea how I was going to get my things to Vancouver. There was no way I could pack all my precious belongings into two – even three – bags. This is still what my subconscious believes, that possession is nine-tenths of my life.

In passing moments, my mind has been out walking. It comes across things that I’ve long-since forgotten and other things that I’d be best off to forget. My mind gets tired of walking and it lingers in these memories with no positive outcome other than to remember what I want to forget. I maintain in my best a pleasant demeanor, and this is who I am, but there’s another bit – one-tenth kept deep down inside – that could huff and puff and blow down a house of bricks.

The Breath of the Water

Prose, April 17, 2008 at 04h38
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She drowns peacefully, in my dream, while I watch, standing over her with my shoulders above the surface. I beg her to come up to where I am, I motion to her, I even try pulling her. But there she remains, her hair floating weightlessly around her. She doesn’t believe in the water. She doesn’t believe that what we feel will hurt her. She doesn’t understand that she can’t stay where she is, that it’s dangerous, that she should trust me. Maybe she’s right; I’ve earned no such privilege. There is nothing for her to drown in except for the water line that I drew above her head. Still, she sits, unbreathing and content, and still, I stand, the opposite. This is the difference in living.

Only the End of the World Again

Prose, February 26, 2008 at 06h29
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Last night I had a dream that I was the only one who saw the end of the world. And I didn’t want to wake from it.

I was out in a field with hundreds of other workers, picking berries or tilling soil or planting seeds, as was my job then. A tight, pulsing trail of fire leapt up into the sky, bright against the starlit backdrop. It swirled in a giant loop, burning so dominantly that there was nothing but absolute nothing in its wake. Slowly, the fire descended from the sky. I knew, somehow, that we were the last people on Earth, however long such a thing could be true and boasted about. Everything the fire touched was devoured – the field, the soil, all the workers that were standing around me, one by one, some not even aware of what was happening. The fire came for me last, slower than ever it moved. I stood there amazed, eyes wide open, staring with struggling confidence and hopeless curiosity. I watched it swirl in small circular patterns as it approached me. I just stared, and stared, and…

With Patience

Prose, January 15, 2008 at 06h25
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In my dream, when I woke up, I was in a bedroom that only looked like mine. I knew it wasn’t mine, despite all the things that I recognized; my lamp by the bed, my discs on the wall, my heroes framed and scattered throughout. Where was I? Not my bedroom. It was my bed, my blankets, but someone else’s room. I was lost.

In my dream, when I opened the door, I stepped into dense jungle. There was chirping, squawking, roaring. I turned around, frightened, and the door slammed closed behind me, disappearing into dark green foliage. There was no way back but now I wasn’t as frightened. There’s no time for fear when you’re trying to survive. I climbed up the tallest tree with ease to look for a path to take, but as I reached the top – even from the peak of the tallest tree – there were still trees around me that were taller. I couldn’t see anything. Now, rather than keep climbing, I decided to swing from vine to vine, not knowing where I was or where to go, but at least I was moving. It’s always best to keep moving. You never know how lost you are until you’re standing still.


Prose, January 3, 2008 at 05h52
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Last night I found myself in a hospital bed, my body wrapped tightly in bandages, in a large room whose walls were too far away for me to see. My mind was unclear, possibly still dizzy from whatever had happened to have ended up where I was, and I could feel myself still bleeding but from where I couldn’t tell. The sound of a door opening and closing echoed around me and I heard footsteps cutting the silence towards me, more than a hundred in all, one after the other, casual and deliberate. I was so far from wherever that door was, but in no time at all those steps were right next to me, although the body that they belonged to was nowhere in sight.

“Hello?” I asked without reply, repeating myself twice before I heard anything other than my own voice.


I turned my head as much as I could, which wasn’t much at all. I recognized the familiar tone but there seemed to be no one from which it came. “I thought you said you weren’t coming.”

“No, I said nothing like that, and, as you can see, here I am.”

“Yes, of course,” I said. The bandages wrapped around me seemed tighter than they had even just moments earlier, especially one on my chest, that I could see was gradually turning from white to deep red. “Well, I thought you said I wouldn’t be here.”

“No, I said nothing like that, and, as you can see, you are.”

“Yes, of course,” I said. Clearly I was mistaken because now I remember that nothing at all was ever said, just subtle implications that I clearly misinterpreted. My chest was even deeper red now.

“Come, let’s go for a walk.”

I tried to turn my head and look at this person, but I could neither turn my head nor see anyone if I could. I was upset at these words and showed it in my reply. “I can’t walk! Can’t you see where I am? In this hospital bed, bleeding, my entire body wrapped up and waiting to recover?”

“No, I hadn’t noticed, and, as you can see, I’m well enough to walk.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, spitting out the last words in the conversation. The footsteps began again, the sound of them fading further and further away but not ending. I wondered if they’d quietly slipped out through the door or if they were just hiding in the corner, waiting to see if I’d join them or die from the wounds. I wasn’t sure myself, and the bandages on my chest turned no whiter.

My dreams lately are blurring the lines between imagination and reality, and the best sleep I ever seem to have is when I’m awake.