There I was in all my glory. Gleaming in the bright summer sun, I ran towards the grass and leaped. I soared through the air like a young eagle that just learned how to fly. I was a six-year-old little cherub, not yet corrupted by man’s daunting influence. Nothing mattered but fun. Fun all day. Fun all night. I would search for more fun under rocks, pillows, couch cushions, leaves and tree stumps. I made sure to get plentiful sleep as to not waste any daylight, because sunshine and daytime meant fun and adventure. I didn’t think about the dark. I didn’t even sleep with the lights off. It wasn’t because I was scared, it’s because I was just used to it that way.
A little while later in that same glorious, fun-filled year, I learned to make use of the off-switch at night. I realized it was more peaceful and quieter, somehow. But those meditative nights of comfort were quite ephemeral. On one Halloween night, my mind was plagued with deadly, cryptic images of monsters, ghosts, ghouls and demons. Beetlejuice was blaring into my cochlear membranes and terrorizing my retinas. My soul, twisting and turning, rotating and warping itself into a hurricane of upmost horror, clawed at my insides. I felt like vomiting. I would have run away, if my limbs hadn’t been frozen stiff. Anytime I even blinked, I saw a demonic and distorted Michael Keaton holding a severed head in his hand. I didn’t sleep for 2 days, even in the light. My mom then told me that monsters weren’t real. I went back to fun. Kids aren’t supposed to worry about stupid things that don’t exist.