31

I spent your birthday in self imposed bed exile.
16 hours of much needed dreaming.
I say this for two reasons:
I had so many dreams.
I haven't dreamt this much in awhile.
Dreams of psilocybin mushrooms.
A tooth abscess enclosed in the tissues of my jaw bone,
 the apex of an infected tooth's root spewing puss like a fountain.
The arena
of joy and sorrow happily cascading streams of vivid pictures
against my sleeping eyes
as in all to be a symphony singing
something special for something 
that happens just once a year. 
Something like a birthday that is at once so celebrated
and so deceivingly nostalgic
that it hurts too much
and you feel that you've been robbed of true beauty, 
but then the puss recollects in your mouth- and the 
beauty of fighting a true fight resurfaces all over again
and you feel as right as rain as right as rain as right as rain.

Quick! Somebody pull the e-break!

Stop the ride! I want to get off! I don't want to remember that your birthday is this Friday. I don't want to think about how you should be turning 31. You were 29. Dead at 29. In less than two weeks I turn 32. You are dead at 29. You should be 31. This Friday.
The other day, I logged into your facebook, and an old friend of yours commented on the most recent profile pic I posted of you- the one where you are holding your niece Elianna. He sent you a message saying something along the lines of, "Hey hey, long lost friend, feels like yesterday we were getting into trouble, and now it looks like we're both bouncing babies on our knees, heh heh, ha ha, lol..." I hate him. I don't know him, but I hate him. I'm sorry.
I love you too much to get over you sometimes. I hate birthdays.
I promise to write a nicer post before month's end. Just let me rant for a little first, okay?