Silly Little Dreamer

I am leaving now - going out west to the prairies. They say it's nice out there. I'm going to see some relatives - dilapidated by wrinkles. I should have mentioned it the last time I saw you, but I couldn't. It didn't seem appropriate. There were so many things that I wanted to say, but none of them seemed appropriate. They were things that I thought I might mention sometime when we were wrapped together in the darkness of the night; when our bodies were entwined, and we were one. Things would flow so much easier, but the time never came. Instead I sought my solace in my blankets. They gave me warmth, a cold stalwart warmth.

The images came, hard and fast, but never stayed. They only thrived - thrived upon me like some leech. They picked and chewed away at me. They're on my leg, then knee; my stomach; my face, and then head. They scare and scar. They leave me shaking. I bolt up-right from my sleep. I yell hard and long. My voice and it's shrillness pierce the evening's air. The room becomes still. All I can hear is the rasping of my breath; cold and stilted. It soon subsides and I wipe the sweat from my brow - a cancerous sweat.

The dreams, that's what they call them, are transparent, and yet, I can't see through them. They fog my mind; create an atmosphere like that of some enchanted forest - hazy, bewildering, and frightening. I wander into them freely - I have no choice - and I leave them - running; running; running. That's when I fly up on my mattress exhausted and left alone.

I'm tired and want to go to sleep, but can't. I'm afraid to go to sleep. There are other people in the dreams; my presence effects them. It gives them a destination, perhaps predetermined, perhaps wandered into absent minded. They're set free; their shackles severed, if I wake up in time.

I never mentioned it to you because you would have thought it strange; offensive. They are dreams of things that happened to me; vague shadows that stalk the back of my mind like a panther does its prey. I know the beast is there; ready to bounce, and dig its claws in, but I wait, uncertain of which direction to run in. I am in the middle of a desert. It is hot and I become the mirage - a pool for the lapping.

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