Cherry Bomb
Cherry Bomb Follow mental breadcrumbs. I find myself in a familiar place. One I had forgotten. Or at least I had forgotten this feeling. It’s a dream, isn’t it? Sometimes there is a house. I go but I have no recollection of being inside. I see myself enter from afar, but that’s when knowing stops. It’s alright. It’s a time-out-of-time. It had to happen. It didn’t work out. Or did it? I can hear the music, slightly out of tune. I feel joy. That is real. There was a dog with a smile, motorcycle tires and books that were never read. When it was cold, it was cold but mostly it was not. My car didn’t run, and everyone thought that was okay. Is the house in a dream or a memory? Is there a difference? I don’t know. The door opened and I crossed over. Nobody needs to know. What I do know: it’s alright. Let it be. Day or night, asleep or awake there was always a blur. Something not right. I fought it for a long time. Long after the night passed. The dog lost his smile. The cold was no longer cold because everything was cold. And still, the blur. In the end, the blur. I once feared the blur more than death, but came to understand. They are one. Nothing is feared. Nothing is discarded. The dog’s smile is as empty as the house, as the next page awaiting a thought. Touch the horizon and wait. Something emerges from sleep. The dream is never over, but it is recognized. The dream is dream. All is dream. Even memory. The blur is memory, along with the cold and the dog. But the house is only dream because I have no memory of being within.