Beauty of A Dream

Tick tock, the clock hands rotate on this “possible” day. Will the sound ever stop? The pendulum moving right then left.

I close my eyes tight out of pure insanity settling in my brain. STOP, STOP I scream! Then the sound of shattering glass. It came at me in slow motion with every shard slicing my skin.

Now I’m bleeding, but I don’t call for help. My curiosity of the dripping blood sends my mind into a frenzy but I look around me. Now that the clock has stopped.

The room is in a dilapidated and very dark corner but I’m not afraid. There sits one wood chair with paint peeling and splinters. The floor creaks as I walk along it to the chair. I’m not afraid. I reach the chair, sit down, and close my eyes.

I begin to scream, kill me already, just end my torture. This possible day, this day I cry and bleed without fear. Not afraid, just waiting.

I grab the hard wooden arms of the chair and while the wood enters my skin, I slam my feet down until the floor cracks, lift my head and shriek. It’s a deafening shrieking that causes everything around the room and myself to shatter. There is no existence, was I real?

Suddenly, I open my eyes, standing there staring at the pendulum and hearing that God awful ticking. I shake my head, lie on the floor and cry. No matter what shatters or how much I bleed.

It will always be a possible day. The repetition of pain. It never ends.

Are you that one stuck in the broken chair screaming, bleeding, wishing your shrieking would shatter everything including your soul? Giving your breath back to God? Would you make it, if it were another possible day, where you wake everyday with that clock and start over?

A possible day, everyday. Never allowed to die but not able to live.

KAB 2016