house of 1000 stories

Only in dreams

she's running, right. and i mean really running. gulping, gasping for air like that fish on the end of that faith no more video. her face is wet with tears and sweat and her eyelashes are clumped together, making her face look as if spiders are nesting there every time that she blinks. as she runs, she turns around every now and again, her pace faltering slightly as she thinks she might have caught a glimpse of what she's running from. if she is running from anything at all. maybe she's running towards something. running to salvation, running to hope. but to run to be saved means there's an antagonist to be saved from: it works both ways. anyway. her feet clatter clumsily against the cobbles on the ground of the passage, her hard bottomed, flat, black shoes sturdy and reliable, but the buckle on them rattling dubiously as if they might come undone at any moment. her hair slaps dully against the back of her neck, forming itself into dirty-blonde ropes; slicking themselves to her skin, binding her like the ropes that held gulliver in the stories of his travels. the sky darkens, ominous clouds covering the openings of the passage, the air surrounding her is still and quiet, save for the swishings and gaspings and hiccups that emit from her mouth. if someone were to go up in a hellicopter and take an aerial view picture of the world around her for a ten mile radius, they'd see that no one else was in the picture, that her struggle was in vain and not seen or heard of felt by anyone. deep down, she knows this. yet still she runs.