shanmonster | Scream of Consciousness

I keep dreaming of animals--of bright-faced macaws and horses long dead. The birds screech and hiss malformed words at me, and the horses lead me on to doom-drenched forests before stopping, nostrils atremble and hooves pawing and squelching at black alder loam. My mother is with me. She wants to turn back, and nervously, I let her.

I don't know what it means, this effervescent and surreal dread. My brain quivered for days on end, and now it rests. It's freakishly still, and the sudden steadiness itself is almost a source of vertigo. I'm sleepy and tired and far away from the drowning and far away from the green.

The horses still paw in my dreams. Dogs speak to me in plain English. The things they say are simple: the words of a moron. But what else could a dog say? If most of your desires included jamming your snout up other people's butts, you'd either have little to say, or you'd just have the obsequious words of the ceaselessly servile sycophant.

Maybe this is why I'm more of a cat person.