The places I have gone and not moved a foot. Awake, constantly distracted by the slavery I have been put in. Not love. Love is not slavery if you know how to do it right. The slavery comes in the hustle just to pretend you are living.

I used to think that the escape came in dreams. That once I was tucked away into myself, I could hit the ‘exit’ button and proceed to another realm. That, I discovered, is not the case. Dreams are also traps. The leftover junk of the day, or the regression to a past life that you thought you evolved from. It’s the bin of the mind.

The world is wrapping around itself and the vibrations of it reverberate in my conscience mind. I see my dad, who passed away five years ago. He’s agitated and concerned. When he was alive, he knew that his children and grandchildren were going to suffer the consequences of the darkness. So he comes to watch. I see smooth skin and his eyebrows shift. But he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. Dad, all I can do is not be swallowed into the dark.

My sister and my mom, who are alive, also show up. Mom is hysterical. I can’t catch a break from her judgement. Her other daughter, the young one, is angry. I try to reason with her but the dark storms in her eyes tell me to ‘fuck off.’ I’m not offended, I know our history and there is a price to pay for growing up the way we did.

Another dream, the people who were once my heroes and have crumbled from their Hollywood palaces, unmasked and their true nature revealed. I am angry. The three of them. The Tequila Man who fled to Italy, the Club Fighter with ex witch wife, and the one who wore the Red Shoes and became a Greek. I manifest my anger in accusations, but they smile. They assure me that the cycle of devouring innocent blood and flesh will never end.

The places I go. The cities that only exist in a dimension I create when my body gives in and I am taken deep inside. Deep inside myself. That is where the universe exists. I have been everywhere. A mountain too big to fit on this planet. A canal city with flying machines. Roads that were on fire and we managed to barely escape.

I have died in my dreams. I have talked to the shamans. I have stared the devil in the face. I have friends there. But there are also unpleasant faces that want to take what I have fought for. I see my child and perhaps children that I have borne in my past lives.

It’s a difficult thing. Dreaming. It’s too much responsibility. It makes me anxious about death and her adventures. Why can’t the soul rest? Is it too much to ask for? Happiness without worry?

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