Screams from the Darkness

Now fully awake, I take those first drags of a stale Marlboro, then violently hack as the hot smoke enters my filthy lungs. I struggle to adjust my pupils to match the darkness. The nocturnal emission of someone’s subconscious psyche getting the best of them has ceased; it shifts effortlessly between the sane and the deranged.

How do I convey this? How do I explain what another man’s fears are? Can I begin to even imagine what they might be? The very same questions circle my head like a revolving billboard. Bright white letters, its background matches my darkness. Each revolution ends with a question mark, Yet as the keyboard on my ancient typewriter takes on a life of it’s own, I must try. “Van Munching” conveyed this emotion without a single word, Yet my paper canvas remains totally blank even though I process  almost his exact work – ironically installed – several layers beneath my pale skin. Never to be erased, never to be forgotten, for me to always recall why it was I –  who woke up screaming…