I dreamed I was a pigeon...
We know why we sleep but we don't know why we dream. Some things might forever be mysteries. I've resigned myself to the fact that I'll probably never be suicidal, because my anxiety is so intense that I have found countless ways to worry about death itself. I think this is what they call Stockholm syndrome. It's like how my friend, in fourth grade, once got cast in an opera solely based on him fitting into a sailor suit. He had two minutes on stage and his grandmother sat through this whole three-hour German opera to see him. A journalist brought him Lord of the Rings figures to play with and he spent an entire rehearsal painting tiny Legolas and Smeagol. We are meaning-making creatures, but life is constantly running away from meaning. We stay because leaving is an unsatisfying option. Even if it's three hours long. Even if it's in German. It's like how I didn't realize how much I smile and laugh until a wisdom tooth extraction made it painful. It'