5:07 p.m.

...And at the Pearly Gates, I knelt on both knees and begged. I was the Pauper demanding cake. You stared at me and laughed, and before I knew it, I fell from the clouds.

Farther,
and farther,
back to Earth.

I am Mortal; nothing is going to change any time soon. All I can do is look to the clouds and pray that, one day, You will let me in. But that's ridiculous. I have better things to do.

March

These days I find myself either completely stressed out or completely sedated.

11:40 a.m.

It smells like burned plastic.  Like my mother's room on a Saturday morning, the curling iron resting on the sink.  Everyone around me covers their faces with their arms, their scarves.  "The smell...it's too much."  I am the only one who enjoys it.  I inhale, exhale.  My lungs finally feel big, like white garbage bags that have never been used.  For the first time in a long while, I can take in the world without the stress, the drama, the neverending battle I have with confronting my fears.  I am calm.  

I stand enveloped by fire, but I know I will make it out.  For I will use my lungs and breathe as hard as I can, like the Big Bad Wolf and a brick house, like a child and a birthday cake.  

There's no such thing as a dead end.