I dream of horrible mishaps. Mangled limbs and machine parts, smiles crossed out with red pens, losers, trapped in the gap between life and death, clinging to a tiny bit of happiness.

You're all photographs, strewn and wilted in some flooded basement, underneath the weight of some decaying, endlessly empty house. I worry that it will collapse while I am gone, and when I come back I will have forgotten everything.

I do not want to forget. I carry it as far as I can, and it is so heavy; these nightmares and stories are stuck to me like leeches, and they're not mine, they're not mine.

I was born into an empty space, and as I tried to fill it with memories, it expanded and grew to some incomprehensible size. It drips with water, and my head gets heavy, and when I fall asleep, the sea comes back to me. Between murders and death cries, the waves collide, soft and powerful and cold, white hands pressed against my face, filled with winter. They only speak in backwards whispers, calling out to me. The sea, the sea, the sea. It keeps coming back to me.

I hide under rocks, and my hair turns into seaweed. My hands turn into sand. Someday I'll eat shells and carry children's feet across the beach, to the water, where they'll laugh so loud against my ears, I'll laugh back. And I'll never eat my words again, and there will be no vacancies to fill, I'll just be full of the world with the water in my mouth and the Sun filling me with light. And I won't dream at all.

Honestly, I'm kinda speechless on this. It's quite moving, thank you for writing.

You're welcome. I love to write, and am glad to share it.