N is for nightmare

It has everything to do with the fact that I read these gory murder stories before I go to bed– I read with rapt attention, then I fall dead asleep. Most nights I don’t get to turn off the reading lamp.

Tonight I dreamt of a red bed, and waking up in shock (in the dream) as to why I was there. Alone. Clothed in some kinda drapy pillow case. (Phew! Did not dream cheat) It was one of those torrid smoke-hazed rooms with veils and sashes hanging from the rafters and you gotta push and shove at these semi-translucent pieces of cloth to get out of this room bathed in red light. I wasn’t scared of some ghost — it did not have a ghostly edge; just the endless maze of bring trapped or lost.

Dream morph.

Then I dreamt of an old friend; someone I haven’t dreamt of in years– we were sitting at some stone tables along a dirty river. It was in the middle of the day, but the weather was cool. I remember being barefoot; tapping my ankle to the beat of some song I was humming. We weren’t really talking, just enjoying each other’s company; and humming this tune that’s still stuck in my head.

Then I wake (for real) to realise I’ve only been asleep less than 20 minutes– marvelling at how quickly the mind moves when at rest.

Broken sleep; going to have a sore head tomorrow. The Forev-Boyf sleeps on, he is exhausted from his weekend trip to Vietnam. I listen to his breathing in envy. Bronco snores, snug in D’s arms.

At times like these, I feel both fortunate and lonely. Fortunate that I have so much to be thankful for, lonely because I have all these words bottled up inside that I cannot enunciate. The words that won’t come.

There is a private storm in me, a grief that saw me clutching at the steering wheel and fighting back tears this afternoon. But I couldn’t bring it up today over dinner; I’m sorry– I guess this is my confession D. I think I know why, and I think you know why; but I can’t say for sure, it rumbled its way through me like a road-train in the night and it went by before I realised it began. I could be angry, I haven’t worked it out. I clearly don’t want to talk about it; just to be left to make my peace with myself.

Dreams, reality, hopes, fears, desires and frustrations. I can’t make sense if it all. What could anyone do even if they understood, what difference would it make. At the end, it’s me alone at 3 am thinking wretched thoughts I have no business entertaining.

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Author: c

my world, out of your reach

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