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I had a dream that I was running, running fast. Through muddy puddles, crying, wanting nothing but to be home. But the home in my head isn't the one I see now. The home I wanted to go to was one where there had been many bad memories, memories I often forget, but somehow never leave my mind. Tacky floral tile floors stained with exhales from nicotine gums. A tiny fridge placed in the corner of the room with no food, only alcohol, possibly some spoiled milk in the very back. A dark maroon rug, or maybe it was orange, and a brown couch. Most of the tables were milk crates. My room was a small porch where the cigarette...

I can't shake this empty feeling. This pit in the very bottom of my stomach that always seems to cave in once I had thought it was full. Dirt crumbles in and out of it, as I relax then struggle to breath.

I want a hug, I want to cry, I want to move everything out into the yard, I want to hose down this house, hose down myself. I have a job interview tomorrow, that's pretty exciting. The start of something new, hopefully I get the job I think I'd fit in well over there... Maybe I can be happy.