unresolved

 last night i had a dream where i was writing furiously, poem after poem in old familiar spiral bound notebooks.

dan was there, he asked what i was writing and i said something like "i used to write a lot, back when i was depressed. i don’t know who i am now, i’m not me anymore. you don’t know me at all, really. but neither do i, i guess."

i keep hearing those words repeating in my head. 

perhaps ignorance can’t really equal bliss.