I wake as I normally do, slow to move, mind awake all at once. Or do I? My dream is bleeding, red edges covering reality in a mess. Nymphs and pixies and succubus and drow and angels all converging in my head. I tell them to get out, and they do, only to leave red smears. Later, I think, I'll have to clean that. Or maybe make Bri do it. Neither is likely to happen. They'll be crusty reminders of when my dream refused to die without bleeding. Probably in retribution for coming too soon and leaving too early, like the reverse of a late fee. Transaction fees, yes.
I stumble through, till I meet the next crusty thing. Except this one moves. I look around, wondering why I'm cold and why a bear is talking to me. Ah. I'm at work. I can already feel the ennui drowning me. Or maybe the gauntlet at work is stronger, forcing me away from my dreams. They're fighting back today. The war they rage is untenable, but what's a man to do. Oust his brain? Even mountains of dew washing over me like cool rain have little effect, their potent magic being formed into streams that bubble and fizz and die out all to soon. Sadly, they take the mutant turtles with them, as well as their ninja escapades. I am left with my war. Reality seems to be winning, which means of course that I'm bored and detestful. The shipping industry isn't paperless, let me tell you! It's steel and implements of pain. And shivering in a sweater, a pullover, and my coat.
Of course, the dreams rally and have several notable victories. Except I can't note them but to say they were tired of bleeding. Perhaps they thought they were being too edgy by always being on mind. They wanted to go back to the comfy place of subconscious desires. You know, those things I can't mention? Except I can mention that more lingerie should be wore as going out clothes. Reality fights this one very hard.
Eventually the bear is replaced by a bitch. A particularly ugly one. Maybe it's the friction from her yapping vibrating the air molecules. Off goes my coat. Up the urge to strangle. Watch those pointless words of hers get smaller and smaller till all is left is purpose. I don't care what purpose it is, but let it be related to work and not to your Canadian boyfriend who oh so indecently would like you to stop being a bitch, and become a maple leaf. Except your too canine for that. Too American. You're short and stumpy. Like a tree that was cut down before it could become more than the bare bones necessary for supporting and propagating life.
Time flies and I leave on a jet plane. That's what my little red conveyance is inside the dream world I've been drifting in and out of. She certainly rattles enough. No bite in her to speak of, she gets me where I need to go. I thank her for letting me ride her. She purrs in gratitude. Unfortunately someone else wants the privilege. It's my precursor, a nasty piece of work. For her my inconvenience is nothing. Back into the cold, my trust red steed to the doughnut shop I go. I decline a hole of food, for what reasons, I do not know. I want my food to be whole, perhaps. Not half baked. I take the precursor to her own hell and leave her their gladly, tempered by the sad knowledge that once you've brought something into hell, the foregone conclusion is that you must bring it out the other side.
My only battle worth recalling is one with the cleaning machines. I won, but only because time and warmth will dry fabric just as well as a spinning maw of utility, either wet or heat. There is also the battle with the taxing man, who wears on me and requires my compatriot from hell. I decide to come back later, fully armed with a halfwit. Also the battle with the cats who barely tolerate me. They saved up their attack for when I was about to finally be free of them. Then I could barely breathe from the virulence of their onslaught. May I be forgiven when I call them caninving. Perhaps the only reason worth recalling a battle is because it was won. Who wants to recall that which we've lost? But I've sallied forth and needs to jump back into the stream of consciousness.
To the deep I go, armed with my precursor halfwit. Before we can fight the taxing battles, we must first fight the dying pictures in a box. So two electronic stores we visit. An item of interest is written down. A promised paycheck is bemoaned like the loss of a lover fair. The red edges are throbbing, forming raw now with each utterance of the halfwit.
I take a small form of delight in that the taxing wins against the precursor, but also know this means my fight with it is not over. Again and again will I have to rehash this battle so that all parties are satisfied the debit amount is correct. And then I'll have to do it on paper. For my troubles I beg to be fed. The demons laugh. I steal a banana whilst I Yahoo IM!-abilize, as a final act of defiance, the precursor. You see, I make her figure it out. This means likely I will need to pull the sword from her foot later. The banana agrees.
Finally home. I am gladdened, as is my steed, by this sight. I am furthermore gladdened by the appearance of the downstairs leaving. Indeed, waving! Besides, the upstairs hanging alone is a sight worth seeing in a crowded hood of neighborhood snakes. Alas it had only run off on a bender, it came back too soon. I enjoyed the idea of it like a savory beast might enjoy red tea suggested by one wingedpixi. I still prefer the purity of white.
I find, even furthermore, the taxing had come to visit me. But to make up for me having to be a champion for a halfwit, fighting a loosing battle, it was to be easy. A surplus! Though not as much as the last. I can't claim school. It doesn't want me right now, the bitch. The surplus will not cover what I wanted with it, so when wants are not covered, I must be naked with selection. I have yet to decide how enjoyable the selection will be, or if it will be just business, as usual.
So I end my tale with green lust ravaging raw and bleeding dreams. The dreams finally win.
All is balanced.