Have You Any Dreams You'd Like to Sell?

I begin to morph into a hibernator when summer decides to smell more like fall in August. My depression wraps around me like a 200-year-old quilt displaying in it's patches my travels, my passions, and life mapping scars. I embrace my depression because she is the only one who knows who I am during this season.

I meld to softness of slumber. Sleeping is always my refuge hindering thoughts that could paralyze me. When my head finds it's last impression in the center of my pillow, I can be surrounded by daytime repressions coming to life in a psychedelic trip-Angela in Wonderland.

This is where I can breathe and expand, fly and run. I can find my lover returning to me too late as he finds me kissing my favorite poet. I spiral down a dungeon within an ancient castle where many lost souls seek refuge; I look for a room where my spirit can hover and haunt. My favorite actor often comes and tells me bedtime stories in between white linen sheets. More often strangers take me to themselves and I surrender.

I may be chased by the unknown where I once could get a running start and flee in flight; my older soul runs and jumps hiding in tall buildings racing to empty elevators. Once I saw my own murder. I laid there stabbed and bludgeoned watching in disbelief. Most times I wake up comforted simply by being taken away from the conscious state. This morning the artist known as Prince showed his apparent adagio talents lifting me in air. Spinning me like a top he captivated his audience; once we came down, my eyes were his captors.