You’re mine, girl.

Boy meets girl.
Girl plays her hand well.
Boy chases girl.
Girl discourages his pursuits.
Boy catches girl, strips her, and slips himself deep inside of her…

…girl finally meets boy.
Boy has played his hand well.
Girl chases boy.
Boy discourages her pursuits.
Girl persists, tangles him in her charms, and slips herself deep inside of him.

I feel like I could laugh for a week straight…though I couldn’t describe in words what it is that’s so terribly funny. It’s just that feeling you get, when you’re, say, playing poker, and you get dealt an incredible hand…but not just that. You’re last to act in this game, and every other player at the table throws all their chips into the pot with half-confidence, oblivious to the fact that you have them dominated…and all you have to do is push your money forward and lay down your cards to claim it all. It’s that got you by the balls but you don’t even know it feeling. Damn it feels good to be a gangster….now if only I had the slightest idea where that feeling came from.

It may have been the terrible pseudo-dream I had last night, while struggling to shut my brain down to rest. I’ve run completely out of the substance which alone has made life endurable for me, and as a consequence I have not been able to contain my explosive thoughts to the degree with which I’m accustomed. This has, over the last few weeks, caused me great anguish, which seems to have peaked in the wee hours of the recently departed morning. I was assaulted with a dream, though I was completely awake when it hit me…and it somehow caused me real physical pain to experience. Not to be confused with heartache, or nostalgia…I repeat– this was real. Tangible. I could pin point where in my chest I felt the electrical stabbing…and ever since I experienced it, I’ve just wanted to laugh. As though the pain was a sort of…death, of sorts. A stake driven firmly into a weak and fading facet of my personality….one I may be better off without.

The dream, if you’ll permit me to call it that, hit me with such unexpected vividness and clarity…that I felt for a moment I was actually being physically transported from my bed to somewhere, and somewhen else entirely. Everything was soft and bright and beautiful. Spring laden branches hung low above my head and shook gently in the breeze, each leaf sharply cut and distinguishable. Yellow flowers decorated the outer frame of the imagery, the scent of youthful summer haze hung in the air, and all the while there was this acutely convincing sense of dejavous…an element that I can not stress enough. Like old dejavous, somehow recalled to nearly full detail. The only action involved me stepping from the bottom of some outdoor stone staircase onto an engraved brick that was mostly buried in the hard earth of a path that split the thick green grass, and wove forward into the blurry vagueness of the out-of-focus unknown. The brick I was stepping on was elegantly carved with swirling patterns and decals, but somehow the action of stepping on it was wrong. It was wrong, because in my mind, somehow, it had never happened. I was experiencing a metaphor that reflected my past…the first step down a path, the right path, that I should have taken in the long forgotten eons of yesterday. I saw, for an instant, all of the cozy and glamorous rewards that such a path would have given me, had I only taken it when I had the chance.