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.