''go on- Paint it pink''
''Pink?''
  ''Yea- it will look like a dream''
''A Barbie dream?''
- you know you are dreaming NOW, right?

Then I opened my eyes.
Grey.
The sky was completely grey- and that's what I saw- the
sky.
I fell asleep again.
This time on my back- on a park bench.

This is getting out of had- out of control- it was never at
hand. Nothing was. I Think that's what's wrong, but I'm not
sure.

I slowly turned and sat- looked around me.
Quiet town.
There are a mother and child swinging- out and about on a
Sunday noon- but not many people are out- grey clouds tend
to have that effect on people.

I got up and walked.

I was dozed, and felt like I Was walking through haze.
A curtain of surrealism seemed to have been pulled over my
eyes.
It is as if I was seeing the world through a weird filter.

The rain stopped hours before that- but my jeans were
gathering water; water from the wet floor slowly climbing up
the fabric- numbing my sheens.

I didn't have anywhere to - and I walked on.
And then I walked back. Damn, I need the toilets
And I Walked into a pub.
The barman kindly pointed to the stairs.
I came back and ordered a drink.

The pub seemed like a good place to kill time- was I trying
to kill time? Or was it I who was being killed?

I drank half of my drink in one gulp; and decided I should
slow down. I am going to be sitting here for a while.

I took out my book- do the dead sing? That's an interesting
question. I guess they do-  and I read further- another
Stephen King story.

Alone, cold, in a buzzing warm pub- I had this urge to write
a letter to a far away friend, and I had a pen- so I did. I
wrote.

Writing turns to doodling- and at some point the acute
notion I was drifting away again pinched my rib cage.

I wonder what will happen if fell asleep in this pub. But I
am NOT planning to find out

Perhaps nothing would have happened. I would have woken up
in a while and nothing would have changed- except the time
the clock shows.
Perhaps the football match would have ended; perhaps not.
People will still be drinking and laughing.

Maybe someone would have woken me up.
Maybe the bartender- ''hey- you- you wanna go sleep
somewhere else maybe?'' and I'll open my eyes slowly
''huh?''
''This is a pub0 not a bed and breakfast''
And I would get up and mumble something like ''ayuh, you're
right-sorry'' and leave.

Maybe I would never wake up.

My sleeping has developed into something un-natural. This
morning I could have stayed in bed- If I would not have been
aware that soon people would be over.
And this great realization dawned on me-
I could probably sleep through and earth-quake; I would be
sleep through being swallowed by the ground and being spat
back out. I wouldn't even know.
It would seem like a dream, maybe, if at all.

I am not sure if I dreamt I bought milk- or if I did.
It isn't important, is it?

I promised myself I won't fall asleep in the pub; and I
finished the book I was reading, and finished writing my
letter, and the ink was being wasted.
Oh what pleasure wasting ink!
And its makrs slowly grew fainter, not for lack of it- but
lack of pressure.
Fading.
    I was fading again.

Slowly drowning into some other place; But the football
match is still on- and those guys are still hitting the cue
ball.

Eventually I will have to go home.
Everything is eventual.
And that is cool, in a way.

But going back will get me nowhere- literally. I need to
find a something to look forward to.

I am scared of dreams.
When I'm awake they lead me falsely.
When I'm asleep they awake me to feel haunted.

Where am I heading?

I still should just paint it pink.
 Not think.
Bubblegum- pretty-pink

Shale my head.
 Pick up my bag

Wake Up!

,-I'm awake.
And I walk out of the pub.
 And walk on.

27May7