On being and flying / a dream sequence

When I think about flying, I think about the thickness of the air that surrounds me. The air I breathe. The air in which my wings flap anxiously, hoping I don't bump into the pigeon I offended three nights ago. I think it was four. I can't tell. I think bird brains are small. Or is it about their bones being hollow? I always found that interesting.
Does anyone ever feel exhausted by just being? and thinking and doing? There's such an excess of stuff that it feels obscene to create more. Feels gluttonous to even consume since there is no limit to our consumption. I wonder if consciousness and the ability to reason and question is worth the sheer absurdity that is existence. I absolutely hate it when google outlines my sentences in red to remind me they aren't phrased right.
Anyway. So about that dream sequence - I'm flying, the sky is vast and abundant, and I'm not thinking because I'm a bird. That's it. That's the dream.

a collage from a painting from a thought vomit from an average day

thinking of my love

now I cease to exist

writing on here makes me feel dangerously brave

until we meet again

x