sometimes

Sometimes I go looking. Sometimes I go looking for them in my dreams and sometimes in my waking life. Sometimes I send emails that say, “How are you? I miss talking with you.” Sometimes I hear back and sometimes I don’t.

This dream I had, I was throwing things into my bag, the bigger bag that I carry to work, the sturdy and slightly more expensive than I wanted bag that my purse and book fit into perfectly. I was running late; I was late; I was running.

I had my hat and coat on. I was running. Things were falling out of my hands. Things were falling.

Suddenly, I had to go to the bathroom. Suddenly, I couldn’t find my place or where the bathroom might be in it, and suddenly, I was in a gigantic bathroom with rows and rows of toilets. None of them had bowls; they were more like shower stalls without the stall part, with toilet-shaped holes in the floor. I ran and ran. My bladder ached.

Sometimes I look for those people in my life I have misplaced. Sometimes I don’t.

I ran and ran through the toilet-shaped holes in the floor. I turned a corner and was next to an Olympic-sized pool. Someone was swimming laps. The sound of the chlorinated water against the tiles hurt my head, my legs. And then I went limp because I was in the pool as my electronics slowly popped and died, my fountain pen hemorrhaged ink, my pages and pages of notes faded to nothing.

sometimes I reach out
and
sometimes there is a hand to hold
and
sometimes there isn’t

About Halsted M. Bernard

Halsted, a/k/a cygnoir, does stuff with words. Her favourite things to do with words are keeping this diary, writing stories, and organising information. She lives in Edinburgh with her husband, two cats, a few gadgets, several fountain pens, and many books.

• Web
|
• Twitter
|
• Google+
|
• Flickr