In a dream I’ve seen in the up, up, and away sectors of my mind, collector of the sublime, a vision so dear and of fear that wouldn’t stay. I hold this old story once told by my brain to me and now to the world.
Houses, houses, houses. All the houses. Each the same as I slugged through the neverending lane. All sized and high and black and white. No matter where I pattered, former or latter.
The only sounds produced from the friends I found. They as lost as I, we try and we cry. Creating dissonance as we walk the neighborhood infinite.
We longed to refresh, lest we collapsed to piled flesh, we trailed left. Shooed in and shut in, we go in, the house just another twin. More did my mind’s eye see than you would ever believe: eight crumbs of my brother on a plate. His wife had just ate.
Hysterical, I left the unbearable sight of her bite. If you could believe, I was relieved to heave once more through the cement, limitless time spent with a lament for the kin skinned and binned to satisfy a woman thinned.
Walk on, walk on, walk on. Drowned in similarity, parched of rarity, faced with an unwanted verity. More steps, more reps, less hope, less scope. I withered as I weathered the dithered scene. Until at last, I collapsed. A walker lapsed. With a last breath, I slipped into my death.
Free from the neighborhood infinite, I found my perception had been all a conception. My heart persisted, my blankets twisted, I grasped the dream hardfisted. Scribbled on a rippled page, the memory trickled from my brain to my feet to the blank sheet. The dream’s story, I molded and I folded, and now to you, I’ve told it.
Ryan is an aspiring writer from North Carolina. She hopes her writing will serve as the sign someone is looking for.