Muddled Sleep

Multiple lives dart within my mind. I can only feel them in the temporary state of mind that comes just before sleep.
I see the ghosts they move across a cross-section brain. They become corporeal in the sense they are constructed from ‘real’ memories, but these experiences have caused me to question what are ‘real’ memories, moreover what is ‘real’?

sea mist 033

The sudden pain in the back of my mouth is real. It comes and goes, I’ve rationally determined that it is my soul leaking out.
These dreams need to stop, so I will close my mouth at night. No spirit will be using me to relive its own past life.

My own life is difficult enough to manage without others muddling in my psyche.

There is one life I am unwilling to set free to the ether. For it I allow the window open a crack, my mouth slightly agape and a breath whistling through my crooked teeth; calling her…

Oh but doesn’t love always hurt, even loving a woman deep in sleep to the combinations of all inputs. She is a princess and a hydra.
I cannot banish her from the castle of my mind, my yearning doubles every time. The witch brings some friends sometimes, these are spooks who see me either as a hero come to take her from their clutches or as the villain hiding her in my lair. I know in my soul despite judgements of these common characters that I am the villain.

Oh but to be the villain to such a lady is privilege, although a curse in some regards. All other females are dim and do not sparkle as she does when she laughs. Like the sweet taste of heroin she has diminished all other pleasures, not only ‘real’ women. Food is better at the thought of her. The simple laughter of children reminds me that I cannot have any with her.

It is not enough to share precious moments with her during the wee hours when the moon blesses our love.

Tonight the spring tide is at the high water mark, I can hear the sloshing from my bed. She is calling through the crashing of the waves, to join her as she does every night. I cannot reach satisfaction here in my bed clothes, that is not what my soul is built for.

So with terror and the burden of great courage I allow my soul to whistle past my crooked teeth, through my mouth slightly agape and slip out the window. In the sea-salt mist of the coast marshes I am with my love.

And by the mercy of God, I pray I never awake from this midsummer dream.

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