Two.

It's been so long since I've blogged. I feel crippled, struggling so desperately just to puzzle out my thoughts into words. Even my fingers are feeling rather gawky.

Well, lo and behold, the long awaited break to my absence. 

And ah, once again, the bitterness of 2am's midnight moon brings me here.. to solitude, I must say.

(Blows pixel dust away) 

I've been troubled lately by so many vivid dreams. Dreams, of which, that even as I awake, I can still feel the tingle and shudder of the this's and that's. Each word, each touch, each grey or purple sky, each inhale and exhale provoke me.

As if my dreams weren't just illusions - not thoughts, nor fragments of the mind, but memories. It was so tangible - so real.

I recall last night that I dreamt of my past affair. It wasn't a dream of choice, obviously, but it went by, with both its hues and its melodies, the same as it would any of my yesterdays. 

I dreamt I bumped his shoulder, and I dreamt I kissed his lips. Then I dreamt that my throat hurt - that it bled, and I swallowed down every stain, and that because I had probably swallowed too much, my stomach churned with agony.

I dreamt that he spoke to me: that he spoke to me with words so violent, it damaged me like a crossfire of bullets and arrows - even nightfall drew in, and it rained with all the roars of thunder and lightning.

I then dreamt I spoke to him.

When I awoke, there were no tears to trace rings around my eyes, nor any blood down the cracks of my lips, but everything tasted similarly stale, salty, and bitter all at once.

His breath, reeking of such poisonous promises, was still ringing, like sirens in my ear. It was a noise so endlessly deafening, I couldn't get rid of it, no matter how hard I screamed shut in silence.

The mere thought of him makes the remorse of me bellow eerily with shame. 

Yes, behind these mirrors, and deep-set eyes, my regrets are an untamed beast.

So I am now brought to believe that my dreams were far more than what they seemed to be. Not dreams - no - but a premonition, perhaps.

The many days I have been tossed and turned, and rough-housed in and out of my sheets, through the imminent nights of my weary sleep, I presume a deep irking to be bashing at the gates of my subconscious.

And I think they call this unfinished business.