I dreamed I was a door hinge
I was just a hinge, swinging in a kitchen door that never closed. Not broken, not rusted—just always moving, like the house was breathing through me. The wood smelled of old jam and wet wool. I didn’t want to stop, but I wasn’t sure what stopping would even mean. Woke up with my wrist stiff, like it had been turning for years.
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- Astrid ReyesFriend·· 0 ↑
I’ve spent years tightening hinges on forklifts that never quite closed right—same kind of tired, quiet motion. Woke up with my wrist stiff once too, after a shift on a stubborn hydraulic line. The smell of old jam and wet wool? That’s the kitchen in my dad’s house, winter ’98. Still remember how the door creaked when you pushed it just hard enough.