tuesday 30th november 2021
(an entry from my diary)
i dreamt.
i feel like a printer, propped atop a stool, printing out papers that fall on [in] to a puddle, the rain making it mulch.
i am the printer that recieves a message to convey to the world, the printer that takes time, that calculates, that prepares.
i am the paper. white, flat, blank, sterile, sheets sheeting seeking to destroy the progress i make, intercepting the performance i play upon the stage of life in which i infect.
i am the stool the puddle and the mulch, the transittioning [idk what the fuck this says i genuinely have no idea it looks like nessives but thats not a real word. i wanna say leaves].
i am all of these things and yet i will run out of paper, run out of rain, run out of energy; and the snow will pass and lay wake to flowers that will bloom, and die, and bloom and die until the great nothing on which we grow fall.
(the format of this is as close to the diary entry as i could get it, although i have noticed some mistakes and indicated the correction by using square brackets. forgive me i was like 16/17 and kinda dramatic lol + i havent seen this in years)