Thoughts That Make Me Afraid of the Dark

Floating.

I feel like I'm floating. 

It's a headspace I often find myself in. 

My body drifts aimlessly through space, occasionally flipping forward and backward as I stare at the galaxies around me. In the vast blanket of darkness, there are splashes of colors that I know, but seem so unfamiliar. 

I don't know the name of this place, just that it's space. 

Fingers spread apart and reach out to touch stars but they're out of reach. 

I have no thoughts. I have no fear, or sadness, or joy. 

I know my body is there, because I can see it when I look down but I don't feel my heart beat, stomach grumble or any sensation that can remind me I'm alive. 

If I look down, it seems like the sea of stars and galaxies is endless. There is no bottom. If I fall, there is no promise I'll land. 

Everywhere I look is a variation of the same sort of things. 

I am floating. 

I cannot feel a breeze. Nothing is guiding me along, except my will to stay in afloat. 

This place is vast, colorful and the quietest place I've ever encountered. A sort of peace I've never felt before consumes me. 

Then it happens. 

It begins as a whisper. Or maybe a faint light. Perhaps even another detached hand reaching out for mine. 

Then, in an instant, I am falling. 

Suddenly, I feel everything. 

The wind whips my hair, the blood courses through my veins, I am cold then I am hot, I feel everything one could possibly feel as the bottom of space is approaching. I can already feel the energy from the impact. 

I close my eyes. 

I hit the ground. 

I am no longer floating. 

Instead, I am at the dinner table. 

I can hear the shouting, smell the food on my plate and feel the fork in my hand.

My brain is confused.

We were just floating. 

The confusion fades. 

I am back, but not for long because I know I'll go floating again. 

I always do.