Monday, September 07, 2009

hate to dream hate to wake

It was amazing how my muscles seemed to have forgotten how to lift weights in only two weeks. I even put less weight on than normal. My hands grasps the bars just like normal, and then I pushed. I pushed some more. I looked down to see everything remaining in its place like I wasn’t even there. My biceps, or what used to be my biceps just stared back at me in supposed innocence, claiming they weren’t quite sure what they were supposed to do. Luckily, my eyes did remember how to watch Gossip Girl as my feet trudged through their path on the Stairmaster. As in relationships, it seems all the agonizing work on a body can disappear within seconds.

I said I was going to try to avoid blabbering about you know what, but let me just say this—the best of intentions can be slaughtered with a night full of dreams that you can’t control and that leave you shattered as you wake up to try to live a day that you really don’t know to get through to begin with.

If I really don’t let myself go on and on about what I normally do, my posts are going to get a lot more brief and succinct. Lucky you.

Hopefully, by the end of a couple hours, there will be a post on here with the following chapter of the ghost story. I’m not sure why it is important to me at the moment. I’m not planning on publishing it or anything, and I really don’t think the concept is all that revolutionary (or at all), but I want to discover where it goes. So, here I go…

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