They say dreams are continuations of reality, and if this is true, I beg you God don’t wake me up. Even when the nightmares grip me: running scared, it feels safer. I awake before alarm sounds; closed windows and curtains can’t fend my conscience away.

The resurfacing, the remembering where we are and where I am and who I am is already too much for me to bare today. Cracks of light; just tiny slivers underneath the fabric pull me up and out. I hate it here. I want to go back, to the places and faces in my mind, because I can always dream they’re happy to see me. I feel so misplaced. So irregular and discarded. Like I was dropped into the wrong atmosphere, just one spot over but it’s light years from where I’m supposed to be.

I feel alien. Like I never fit. Never have. Never will. This constant pervasive feeling rips my mind and heart to pieces daily. What I show on the outside is not at all the wreaking havoc that lies underneath faint smiles and jovial outbursts. Because every time it’s quiet, I slink back into the abyss, letting it pull me down, down.

 Where do you go in the silence?

Are your thoughts on an endless looping spiral, like old film reels spinning forever and ever in the dark? Does music always play inside internal speakers; loud or quiet depending on what hallways you’re in and what doors are closed?

I tug the sheet up, tucked under chin and bury myself again. Let the minutes tick on. Give me peace for just another moment. I love it here.