The rain came in the dark of night, shaking me out of sleep
with its drumming on the walls, like an earthquake in my dreams. I wake to find
some sense of non-reality, cave paintings I see in my closed eyelids, telling a
story of survival, thick with the memory of good as well as bad, a tale I
relive every night when I slip into sleep again, then forget again after dawn
has risen and I struggled to keep each chapter fresh in m head, the who and
what I’ve done, the need I still need even all these years later when I should
have surrendered it all to history and not dwell on it in dream after dream, night
after night, as if I could control it, could reshape it into something I could
stick in a drawer and forget, and yet, most vivid when woken from sleep by the
rain, when for a brief moment I actually believe it all is real.
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