I woke at three again. My pillows were gone, thrown like rocks in a revolution. This isn’t new, you’ve seen it before. And I know you love to know about the visions, but dreams are dreams.
It’s the residue that matters. Harder to wash off. Harder to shake.
This morning I chewed on leftovers about water.
It’s unsettling how clearly we see when we’re at the lake. The view is crisp. Colors have edges. We’re prophetic. We’re sharp. We’re ready to cut with confidence.
We might as well wear robes to the edge, then undress, then wade in and write down everything the water will tell us.
It’s a con; I think it works.
But we don’t live at the lake, do we? We see the world through weathered window panes. Aged and scored by the struggle. We do our best. We clean them everyday. We wash away the residue.