a request for dreaming.

Today happened with little to note. I spent time reading old blog entries from older journals and missed certain aspects of the way I once wrote. Something now feels cold and sterile and the old writing, while in no way taken seriously, at least felt as if there was some sort of passion to it. The trouble here is isolating incidents and figuring out what it is that has closed that small part of me off. I feel as if it has been tucked away for some time now.

I find myself focusing on songs in my head these days. A refusal to consider perhaps, or a refusal simply to look. My dreams take on the image of foreign objects and when I touch them, rather than disintegrating into vapor they instead feel uncomfortable and make my body ache. I dreamed my father was a writer too; a better one. I walked into walls when they should have not been there or my dreamstate should easily have been able to penetrate through them. I consider creating a secondary journal, something private, just to take on dreams and collect them. Something that perhaps might help my memory more.

Just anything at this point.