...long time ago...

Picture yourself when you're getting old.
Sat by the fireside a ponderin on.
Picture book, pictures of your mama, taken by your papa,
A long time ago.
Picture book, of people with each other, to prove they love each other,
A long time ago.

I sort of wonder if there is anyone I can go on a walk with anymore without having to talk much.
I sort of wonder why the days lately haven't felt like days at all, but more like spaces between dreams.
I sort of wonder why nothing feels as substantial as before, as if it isn't real.
I sort of wonder if how long I could walk by myself before becoming disillusioned.
I sort of hate disillusionment.
I sort of fear disillusionment.
I sort of feel sick of hearing that word.


::edit::

Things around me are not real. There is music playing in my ears that has all the certainty of tomorrow, and all the reality of a young child’s dreams. I feel the urge to walk on the earth that does not support the weight of my body. I know the smell of the outdoors but it is unfamiliar today. I am stuck in a day that is not a day, but instead a period between dreams. My actuality consists of factuality’s mistakes.