I had a dream that I was a better person.

A brighter person. A bigger person.

In the dream I held a pen(not a pencil but a pen)

in my hand.

A pen, and wrote my future. A pen, and wrote a story. A pen, and wrote myself.

Into existence.

(Not a pencil, but) a pen. (Not unsure, but) confidently. (Not awkwardly, but) with skillful hands. With my hands that knew how to. Hands that were tied to

talented fingers. Fingers for: plucking, gripping, writing, tearing.

I had a dream and I saw myself in it.

I wish I were that person in my dreams.

With all this time on my own you’d think I’d have figured it out by now.

Yet I spend my time convinced that it doesn’t matter. Time itself.

Because I have nothing to do with it.

I don’t deserve it, I don’t know how to use it.

Uninteresting and uninterested all in the same seconds.

Giving up before I’ve tried. Giving up after I’ve failed repeatedly for far too long.

Getting frustrated. Being driven mad. Trying to calm down:

Painting while

watching TV while

eating everything while

avoiding everyone while

falling asleep and

writing this.

There is someone in my dreams who looks a lot like me.

Boy, do I wish I were a dream.