we are ghosts!

A baby sitting in a high chair in front of a blue screen. imagine. watching from a television the weather is considerably fair with a slight chance of falling spaghetti from a tiny boy's hands. on stage, a mother's hand digs from behind the blue screen, reaching out for her child. for once, you finally see that weather can come between anything; rain drowning ants in an anthill and wind blowing birds adrift from their flocks. The mother cries, the boy eats, the weather goes on. I, on the other hand, am not seeing this; I am seeing blankets over my body and an orange tint lighting the blinds at the end of my bed. a phone rings and a news reporter speaks and it doesn't stop. they smother me with noise underneath my sheets.

who lied and told you this was all so important?