Morningtide

Dreamy Winter,

silent Land Zone: Demilitarized

"The Rachael, The Shack"

O n e  i n h a b i t a n t

/sunny sash window/unwatered peace lily indoor plant tilted against wall/radio playing underground pirate station music/dripping tap/_________(more details to be added later)

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I wake up in the morning with fear. I’m not sure exactly when I arise from the dreams. I think that I start to awake while still trapped within them. It seems like a better idea to stay sleeping. The idea of looking at the clock scares me. It might still only be the small hours. I may have to face entering the dreamscapes again. Reluctantly I peer at it.

Seven am. That’ll do. What a relief. Yet I continue to lie there, afraid of the day, both unwilling and unwilling to swing my feet out. I’m disorientated, I’ve got memory loss, for several long stretched-out moments I have no idea who I am. This feeling permeates deeper. I have no general clue of where I’ve been. It’s as though the restfulness of the night has wiped my brain.

I say restfulness, but the dreams and dreamers within were filled with fitfulness. I do not raise myself up refreshed, but tired beyond words, jumpy beyond description. The day stretches out before me like a hard shoulder with obstacles, a assault course with monsters, I’ll do well to get anywhere with that.

The presumption that I’ve been here before, that I recognise this difficulty, is suffocating, like the blanket I use to cover myself. The mattress feels alien, years-old and too-soft and definitely too familiar. But a new bed wouldn’t help. It’s more than that. It’s this emotion before leaving the sheets, this anticipation of the first situation developing.

Am I in Hell? I wonder. The neighbours are quiet. Sometimes they knock on the wall in accordance with my thoughts. Have I relapsed?

It takes a moment to be sure I haven’t. I breathe more easily. I remember, in one of the dreams, having to drink a pint’s worth of pharmaceutical tablets, all of them psychoactive, washed down with another point of alcholol. Reality wouldn’t be fair if the effects of the dream carried over. So, I’m clean and sober...for the day.

I recall being Brownie Adams while asleep, a different woman to the one I am now. My confusion is off the scale. Life is easier as Brownie. I might have a lie-in and stay safe for longer. I may never arise whatsoever.

<Sod it> I think, and get up. The option of a hot black sweet coffee along with some fresh air from the open patio revives my lagging motivation. For a instant there I was squashed underneath the world, drowning in a doozy doze. Fortunately the sun is up,

it has all the hallmarks of a lovely day.