There's a group of people in my dream, weird normal people. Wearing either high school uniforms or dark motor gang outfits. With cheap dyed hair and nose-perched glasses, smiles unbending. Stepping on fallen leaves while holding December inflorescence, together in harmony. On the other side the road, I stood, attracting concerned glances and a hidden kind of pity.
They asked me, "Are you doing well?"
I looked at the familiar road beneath a foreign sky, hesitancy warming up the tone of my voice, and said, "I am not, but should I be?"
Sragen, 15 March 2024
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