I'm laying on the beige carpet; the same beige carpet that used to be white. Sort of, at least. The kind of gentle off-white I like to associate with the memories of younger childhood, and the carpet of the house my family lived in. I can only remember through small holes in the focus of old photos I've found, lying around without being framed or featured.
     I'm laying on the carpet to try and remember why the hell I let what's eating at me eat at me without crawling out of my skin. If I could roll away from it, I'd push the gearshift in the neutral position and avoid the capitol 'r' as well I'm able. Of everything I've ever truly needed, I am truly... purely scared of knowing more than anyone should have to. And no one should have to understand this mortality as well as I have learned - - learned the hard way. The hard way feels soft when it's kissing your eyes, telling you not to cry, with it's fingers entangled with yours and yours alone. And I'm alone.
     Laying on the beige carpet, without having moved a bit. But my mind will work for miles a minute, but I won't want to talk about it. In my dreams, I see this character I decided I'd hated in the third of fourth chapter of the metaphorical story fictionally written to describe this point; but he doesn't see me. He doesn't talk to me. His mouth won't move for me, I won't move for him. He's avoiding me. I'm avoiding him, and still wondering... without ever really having the chance to know if he wondered about me, and if I were wondering.
     I'd always assumed that dream sequences were for heartfelt conversations, I never had a history of having made accurate assumptions. But positive apologies, when I am deeply sorry. It's not usually, no.