one last call before i declare it a day

i think those landmine thoughts for various reasons. sometimes they're spun like cotton candy and they stick and cling and grow bigger and bigger with each twirl of the stick, and even if it's pink, they still stick and cling and grow bigger and bigger with each twirl of the stick. other times, they grow when it's the quietest hour spent in bed. then i imagine myself like nicole kidman's virginia woolf, drowning in a bed taken over by treacherous waters.

then i pinch myself. i pinch myself for those silly landmine thoughts and i whisper haven't they been detonated already? such are the mysterious ways of those landmine thoughts. the whisper goes on have you no care for those about to lose a leg, perhaps both?

that's when everything stops and it is once again quiet in my bed. oh, this bed, once again the site of dreams but then again, shadows creep up every now and then, like the last few nights. i thought they've been safely secured in those vaults.

then i wake up in the morning with a bruise. i wake up to the sight of the crimson blotch on my bedsheets.

i heave a sigh of relief.

thank god for the certainties of this world.