Sleep is wrong.

30Jan07

Vise-jawed (sawing teeth whilst sawing logs,) I wrest faceless apparitions of familiarity the old ghosts’ haunting grounds, ripping layers of nearly transparent gauze off old guarded wounds and scabs are pulled; they bleed anew.  Each movement, mechanized to repeat the outcome of the input, feels like I am running up descending escalator steps while looking at my feet.  I exert extraneous effort and expect to control the events that ensue.  Strings are knotted taut to my fingers and though they each digit twitches with intention, the strings hang loose, attached to naught.  Rather, I am tethered by a shadowy, orphic rope towing me through the shades of my psyche. And though trawled through the darkness against my volition, I am in a familiar place and the cord that binds me also bulwarks.  So when I fathom falling down the chasm, or being flung into the heavens and I am helpless to the acceleration, I have no trepidation that my corporeal body will be smashed to fragments on hard ground.  I am helpless, really.  My mind sees fit best that I acquiesce; I have no choice but to accede.  Though my unconscious effort attempts to steer me down the path I should tread to be released, I am constantly misdirected and end up waking entwined and raveled in my blankets, sweaty and grievous, shaking my fist at a mere dream.

Filed under: dreams, frustration, mental illness, writing   |  Leave a Comment