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Dream

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I dream. I dream and I dream, it seems to be endless. Infinite memories fly through my mind on fast forward, and yet the hours of sleep drag on, stretching themselves out in a slow-moving torture of my own unconsciousness. A car door slamming to my unrestful mind is a pistol, shot at my back. A shaft of sunlight sneaking through the dark curtains is a piercing light, meant only to blind me. Even my bed is a ship, rolling and rocking in feverish movement, carrying me to a place where there is one intent: to destroy. A shivering being, a curled ball cowering next to a chest of drawers, cold sweat pouring from eyes that see things which are not there; this is what I am. It is not what I have always been, but after such change, one cannot hope to change. Demons, once so easily shaken, are now here to stay. My mind must once have been a concrete structure, pilings of stability, withdrawn, alone, but sturdy. But now, it is like a sidewalk after a long hard winter, or a severe storm; the cold and the wind crack the cement over and over. No longer whole, it is broken and no matter how hard the repairmen work, they will never fix every crack, or fill every hole. No matter how hard I try at improbable change, this is who I am, and this is who I will always be.





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