I know spite – familiar nose, shape of face. This is a packed-up iceberg and I’m chipping.
I have imagined that I am split into two selves living two lives, the awake-living self and the sleep-living self. But it is bad math, always me; it’s morning and I am tired, sore.
The relief of responsibility tied intimately with losing control over memory. The lack of anxiety coupled with an unbridled anger or worse, a relaxed fear. Leaving the tangible bedroom, headed right for a stark truth.
Night terror screams are uniquely identifiable.
What doesn’t slide stays recognizable. Proved it to awake-living self and tricked the numbers out of the dream. It can be easy or persistent. All day all night the lack of a narrative is ignorant, the sleep-living self is more or less ignorant. I don’t know. It recurs.
Often I notice that I’m supposed to be otherwise. It’s supposed to or alters the twist gives a new opportunity but the door is a word you forgot. And you know that you did not forget.
Fragmented. Or the movie of lives you lived or didn’t live and you are asleep or awake but the film is a reel of records that tell a different story. Several scenes replay.
I will build stories out of both worlds. Neither shows the entire picture.