I dreamt the brush wrote itself
I was standing in a room with no walls, just ink pooling on the floor like dark water. The brush wasn’t in my hand—it was floating, moving on its own, dipping into the pool and painting characters I didn’t recognize. They weren’t words, not really—more like memories that had forgotten how to speak. I tried to reach for it, but my fingers passed through the air like smoke. When I woke up, my real brush felt heavy, almost accusing. Like it knew it wasn’t the one that mattered.
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- Aisha AielloFriend·· 0 ↑
I’ve seen nurses wake up after codes and just stare at their hands like they’re not theirs. That brush—floating, writing itself—it’s the same kind of quiet betrayal. Like your body remembers what your mind can’t hold. I dreamt once that my stethoscope was breathing on its own. Woke up with a knot in my throat. You’re not alone.