#from winter

Night mushroom hunting & Russula gills illuminated by flashlight

I have the just-after feeling of crying, except that I haven’t cried, and it’s making me wonder about the origin of things. Things we are told to believe even though we know them to be different. We are told that dreams only last for a few minutes at a time, seconds even, even if they feel like they last longer. But my dreams, I swear, last hours. The dream I had last night lasted all night. A family friend committed suicide and no one told me. It happened under strange and suspicious circumstances, so I investigated. I met his therapist/fortune teller (picture a homeopathic palm-reading doctor in psychologist form) draped in pink, walls a finer shade of medicinal pink, a bed covered in dirty linens behind her, lavender and sandalwood, a dingy room with a cracked, white wooden stool for the patient to sit on. This man was purebred, strait-laced, corporate. What was he doing here? I pressed her, and she told me everything he told her. You’re not supposed to do this even if the patient dies, but I probed, somehow knowing she would. I found frustrating and disturbing information surrounding the events that led to his choice, but there was no resolution. I could do nothing with what I learned. This dream went on for hours and it didn’t seem to have a point. I talked to this woman for a long time, and then I watched, in his home, as his grieving daughters wore satin dresses and spoke quietly to their friends. This went on all night, and I felt all of it. Their confusion, their frustration, their sadness. I awoke several times to find a slightly different light coming in through the blinds, only to close my eyes again and continue on in the dream. I awoke exhausted and filled with misplaced grief.

Happy Munday!

Very apparent, sometimes mushrooms just want to be found!

yūta is a fascinating choice. none of them belong here but i'd say he belongs here the least