Why do we dream?
Psychology says you might have some secret desire,
Neuroscience says random neurons fire for fun,
Skeptics say you just need time to process new info,
Believers say it's His way of getting through to you.
I can't imagine any of these things are true,
When my dreams have me grasping the sheets,
Clinging to the last few moments before sleep,
Begging my busy mind to stay afloat a little longer,
Terrified of the inevitable moment I go under.
My thoughts run at 250 miles per miserable hour,
Not but a beat of quiet between each notion,
Anything but that same suffocating silence,
And so my mind repeats itself in crazed circles,
Pleading with the world for a fraction of a sound.
Salting my freckle-peppered cheeks with tears,
Squeezing light from my eyes, holding my breath.
Tightening my vice grip on the despair-ridden sobs
As they attempt to escape my sore and tired throat.
Rubbing my own back, playing with my own hair.
I fear going to sleep, though I have no nightmares.
I'm so deathly afraid, that once I fall asleep,
I'll be faced with everything I've always wanted,
That this chasm in my chest will finally be filled,
And I'll be forced to wake with twice the empty space
I cling so deep to the loud and overbearing noise,
Drowning out that inner plea with pure stimulation.
Everyone else may not feel real, I may be no object,
But if what's real is what no one is around to see,
Then I was born to revel in fiction, in make-believe.
I carve into my cerebral wall a symbol of persistence,
I promise to ingrain my roots around these stones.
Blood travels from one slit palm to the other,
In a gruesome and devastatingly painful loop,
And I feel the most complete I've ever felt.
As the hilt of the blade is lunged deep into my chest,
Blunt force bruises planted directly on my rib cage,
I commend myself for my safe handling of the blade.
My hand clasped around the tightly sheathed metal,
And their hand, checking for my slowing pulse.
We dream for many reasons, I believe this to be true.
They say, evolutionarily, every emotion has purpose
These shivering hands tearing out my spine, for one,
Serve the purpose of preventing me from walking,
From marching directly off that tantalizing edge.
My fear of sleep stops me from doing so eternally,
That terror keeps me searching for new answers.
If there was such an easy way to escape reality,
There's no timeline where I don't abuse that chance.
Keep me awake, keep me alive, all the same.
Please, this voice repeats again, please keep writing.
Heavy eyelids and aching muscles loudly disagree.
Pump that artificial light through these tired retina.
Anything but those same horrible dopamine hits.
Anything but that familiar, devastating withdrawal.
I apply pressure on my chest, I comb my hair.
I do all the pretty things I'm supposed to be doing.
I tidy up and decorate the hollow space in my heart.
It's supposed to make it tolerable, dull this ache.
I'm supposed to be okay, if I follow all the rules.
And yet,
Still all it does,
Is remind me exactly where someone else's hands are supposed to be.
