not my photo or picture
Just in the middle this evening. I've been coming home from work this week singing for an hour and going to bed exhausted. I have a practice, to prepare for my recording session, so I've been singing and video taping like crazy
The nightmares have become worse as the week went on, last night was unbearable. Tonight, I sang for 1/2 an hour and came out to the writing room and proceeded to journal. I needed it.
There's all this newness this year that is young and fresh: that is me following my heart, so much happiness when the child inside gets to sing, but there's a lot of the old me hanging on, because this child still needs an adult.
Writing is my adult, facing the fears of the world sinking under the water and all the boats I've come in contact with sit under the ocean, they're all parts of me.
I walk through the desert of life. I am dying of thirst, and come across a well. Excited I look in but it is poisoned and polluted. I have to choose between death and death, which way would I like to die?
The pictures on my camera are of chopped up people, in my dream I am trying to show you the pictures I took, I know they are in there, I don't remember the body parts, I don't know how they got there, how all those pieces got separated, don't know what they mean to me as a dream. I just laugh and throw the camera to the side.