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SLUMBERLAND IS A PLACE WHERE IT'S NOT DEATH NOR LIFE
NEITHER IS IT A FIGMENT OF IMAGINATION.
»»————- .☁. ————-««
IT'S blood-curdling.
He could feel his heart thumping rapidly as he clutched his chest.
Is it normal to see deathly, powdery white images flitting across the room? The ones, in which carried a stale scent with a hoary white demeanor: would it simply be a reverie from his voluntary seclusion from his own kind? Or would it be real; the ashen stained ones, who reached out to him in vain, expressions obscured and shrouded like the dreary vision he frequently received in the midst of awakening from his slumbering?
He shivers, not from the bone-chilling brumal air, nor from the murky ill-lit sky shining down on the cawing rookery outside (akin to the obsolete picturesque fairytales he often received as an newborn) nor so from the yonder yet ghastly powdery figures that were swarming over his once darkly obscured vision.
Yet as eerie as it sounds, he's not petrified.
He's petrified of none of that.
Because it's him.
He's timorous of himself.
Has he gone mad?
No one knows. and no one will ever know as he suffers alone from the silent tears he cries; the exigency of fear exacerbating his suffrage.
"It cannot be myself that I am afraid of," he cries in a whimsical. "Yes, it cannot be me, for that I have yet to be scared of myself— I am the reason I am still breathing and living in this atrocious world! I cannot be fooled now: it is not myself I am scared of; it is the vexatious existence of those images I am afraid of!"
With no further ado, he stands up and toils before the flickering images.
"Be gone!" He shrieks, waving his limbs around; hoping the figures would deteriorate under his very touch.
They never did.
Contrarily, they wove up to him, towering over his unmatchable frame. He felt his nerves on fire once again; the confidence he wore on his sleeve suddenly shattered.
"Do not come any closer," He says, his voice trembling. He backs away subconsciously, only to feel the heels of his feet to hit the board of his bed. Falling onto the tender billowy cushion of his bed, he shakes in fear.
The figures did not listen to him. They advanced to him, corpses stiff and creaking as something that seemed analogously a hand reached out.
"Abolish your fear," it said. "Not of us, but thyself."
The pulse pumping in his chest screeched to an abrupt halt.
Him? Scared of himself? Whom is it to be scared of thyself?
Of course, it was him. Always the frail, petite, and vicarious little man that lived in a vast mansion by himself: the man who has yet to be deemed handsome and of a spectacular mien. It was him: the one who was afraid of himself, always wishing on every star to be reborn as a pleb; a young lad with quite prominently handsome features.
Because who else could it be?
As his consciousness grew, the figures began to be blemished into the furniture of his room. Whispers had encircled him, like a whirlwind; whispering incoherent phrases that could never be heard by the naked ear of oneself.
And they were gone. For good? For bad?
He didn't know for himself either.
But therein he lay awakened from his terrible phantasm, on the bed of his eloquent room. He's scared of himself again, in the melancholy of the tendrils of moaning wind sliding past his window. The once cawing rookery was now benignly heard of as the rain pounded on his roof and the distant thunder reverberated in the air. He calms himself down, taking occasional deep breaths there and here. Then he adjusts himself in his covers, saying his prayers.
