Bad Dreams

The silence is a cocoon. It makes me startled when someone speaks, voices are too loud. Screams, laughter, hammering, all too loud. Breaking through to assault my ears, my thoughts and serenity. The peace inside is so fragile, like it balances on a gleaming, knife’s edge, tipping one way then the next. It takes sometimes something unexpected and small to tip it.

The only solution is to retreat, withdraw like a Hermit crab into my shell, rebuild the serenity. There is an inch of it inside that is never defeated, never beaten. I cherish it.

Sleeping is an escape, it makes sense. Turning off, I dream of a funeral, each figure marches, clad in black and masked. I’m punching water, people watching me, laughing from the sidelines at the swimmers struggling to cross the disturbed surface.

As if somehow it’s a joke.

They’re not going to win of course because I am controller of my own nightmares now, I have had years to learn, to become the trickster, the one who turns their deception on its head and hunts them back. My head is mine. Always will be.

The raven may caw but it’s only my own fears cawing at me, and they can shut up.

Leave a Reply