“Radio Silence” would make a good band name.

I had a very strange dream this morning; strange and disturbing all at once. In it, I was either a detective, an assistant, or merely an observer for an autopsy. Before the person performing the autopsy could get very far, I began feeling sick and told them “I can’t do this”. Instead of throwing up, however, I sort of half-coughed up a huge wad of rubbery grey…stuff. Half, in this case, being literal — I couldn’t get it out. Not even pulling on it helped, because it just stretched and broke.

I woke up in a state of panic, only to discover that I wasn’t actually choking on anything and that I was physically okay.

I don’t need anyone to interpret the dream, nor do I need to look it up in any dictionary: I know exactly what it represents. (Well, most of it; I’m not sure about the autopsy part, but as I occasionally dream that I am other people, it may have merely been my subconscious giving me a reason to start retching. I’m pretty sure that I could handle observing an autopsy, for the most part.)

I haven’t been able to write much, lately, to the point that I’ve had to give up on my story for the Love Is Always Write event. I feel choked, stifled, and maybe even a little panicky about the first two things — and my brain was simply confirming what I already know.

This may be my last post here for a while, too. I won’t wander away forever, and you can always contact me via email – cwright.writes at gmail.com, and don’t forget the period – but for now, I need to be quiet.