Climbing Stairs, Or Climbing a Ladder, I'll Take The Latter and Stare at My Climbing

Loft living day number...two? The ceilings are high, which is good because I'm now living in the ceiling. I have some books spread out, clothes spread out, bedspread spread out. Still feel lost and a bit dreamy, as in, I'm in a dream of some sort. Not a bad one, not a good one, but a strange one. And in the dreamscape world, "strange" means things are normal. There are no donkeys eating pineapple, or floating clouds of gummy bears, or burping spiders that quote Chaucer. It's the normal that make this dream weird. How my life has changed at the roots, the routines, the routes, facing a different direction. Then I realize, am realizing, will have realized, had realized, that this is not a dream, not the future, not the past, but is happening now. And then I feel lost again. Unable to see beyond those routines. It's the feeling that I expect to wake up soon, so I need not worry about the end of the day, or the end of the week, or this huge gaping hole in the center of me, or this emptiness, or these arms and legs and eyes and ears I'm missing. I need not worry about the thing that was lost, because when I awake it won't be lost, but then I will have had realized that "I" was the thing that was lost, lost in all the tenses, all the repeats. I should worry, though, because through worry comes dreaming. The type of dreaming where I'm at the finish line and I've won. The type of dreaming where everyone is clapping and I slow motion smile and nod and pump my fist at my victory. Without worry, I can't dream. The right kind of worry. I do worry, though. I'm weary from it, actually. I'm worried about the heaps of anger, heaped up in a corner, so heaping it's about to tumble and take me with it, until I'm swimming in mixed metaphors. I need that lofty dreaming to feel focused, because when I'm focused, I am living.