I’m not scared, really


I am not scared, really.


Sleep is nothing because you are nothing as you sleep. You are neither alive nor dead. You are neither here nor there. Your mind exists in a realm you can only access in complete secrecy. Your body exists here, among us, and waits. Sleep is nothing more than a word to encompass much of what we cannot understand; but we understand little and all words, in the end, are precisely that. They are open-ended.


Fear does pursue me in sleep. I would say I do not tremble, but I do. I see the sharp teeth and extended claws. I see the beasts with their bloody maws. I cry for help and only misfortune befalls me. To home, only agony calls me. In day I dream of a dreamless sleep, but my dreams are open-ended and fear writes itself in.


As a person, I am not scared easily. I do not fear what I do not know. Pain frightens me in the basest sense; monsters horrify me in the instinctual sense. Maybe I can never measure my courage, but I am no coward. If I were a coward, I would know.


Entrails strewn and family gutted. A man with a soft smile stands on the far side of the room. Devils in my dreams. Demons in my head. I lay alone in my bed, but that too is open-ended.


I am not scared, really—and that is open-ended.


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