Shadowed Still

Last night I was afraid. Unable to sleep, with "Find Me" sludging through my brain, I willed myself deeper and deeper into something vaguely resembling dreamland. The urge to urinate was present but not imperative. The shadows contained secrets, played tricks on my eyes and revealed the potential visions of bad men in trench coats with dark circles where their eyes should be. The apartment buzzed, alive. Bradshaw growled at my hand when I'd reach out to touch her. I could not get warm under my mess of sheets and the rats from the alley four stories below squeaked and rustled as they fought for food. I am not someone who allows aloneness to terrify him. However, the dark has long been a foe of mine. It overwhelms at times. Leaving me unable to pass from the bathroom to the bed without first turning on a series of lamps to guide the way. A ghost named Daphne was passed on to my consciousness from the childhood of my good friend Ashley. In fact, Daphne is staring at me from her gray-lit corner as I type. And she is not the first. Nightlights taunted me as a child. I at once wanted to see what surrounded the vulnerability of my small twin bed. And was also unable to look out into its potential for fear, for fantasy, for truth. Sometimes the quiet and dark just swallows you up. The awareness of your smallness arrives. Your inability to fend for yourself. Men crawled through my windows. Wolves leapt at my back as I shielded my dog from their advances, leaving my skin bloodied and raw, unsure of the means to my end. One could easily say that the darkness is terrifying because of all that it lacks. I, however, fear the dark for all that could reside within it. All that could escape from its shadowed exterior and appear before me, over me, on top of me menacingly and ultimately, before there is time to flee.