I dreamt that I happened upon some book that proclaimed that there are a good many things that the reading public doesn't know about Emily Dickinson. Her tattoo, for instance.
Only after I woke up I somehow didn't realize it was a dream right away, so I've been wondering how in the world Emily Dickinson had managed to get a tattoo and where I could find some sort of rendition of it.
And then it got even worse: I started thinking to myself how really lovely it would be to have the same tattoo as Emily Dickinson, surely it was something very pretty and birdlike and obscure, and I could always add something to it. Perhaps a line from one of her poems.
I did a search on Google but only found some fleeting mention of a boy with a tattoo of Emily Dickinson burned into his backside, which isnt quite the same thing.
It was about twenty minutes ago that I realized I'd made the whole thing up, and I feel a little disappointed. But, now I'm wondering what other crazy things I come up with that I never end up even realizing aren't true.
The dream was no accident, though. Lately my head has been full of Emily Dickinson and Emily Bronte and Jane Austen and sometimes even Ann Frank. I am having a party and any lonesome girl with a pen in her hand is invited!
I should go shower and clear my head with beads of water.
I should really make a friend before I forget how to altogether.