ndng

This flow of memories unnerves me. Marking things that I have done, things I should have done, but nothing of the things I will do. Nostalgia is calling me out on the time I’ve wasted. And now my bedroom door swings open on its own, unlocked. It is morning. I stumble into the kitchen to find an oak tree growing through the tiles. It consumes the entire room, its branches sweeping over the walls, the low ceiling no longer present above me. Happy birthday, it says. How did you get here? There isn’t any soil, I say. And the tree says, I keep growing until I die. My eyes are sore and my legs are stiff. I feel as though I haven’t moved in ages. I grab a box of cereal from the counter and sit down under the tree to eat breakfast.