Even I have a dream. It’s only in there that I don’t sleep

I close myself up in pitch black darkness every night, see those blue painted walls slowly becoming insolently black as if weaving the blanket of nightmares.

I feel my warm breath on the pillow sucking the last phrases of the stories I have told them only. The music fills up my ears enough to silent the cries around me of those people who still believe in the concept of ‘love’. Just enough to drown the stories they tell me of how perfect the smell of his shirt is or how beautiful the fringes of her red streaks look when the wind plays with it. The music now malignantly spreads across my mind trying to kill every toxic story that reminds me of Him. Just when I try to feel the silence behind the eyelids, the death cries of those tales, rush towards me like a million voices trying to echo one thing.

I feel this impatience recklessness spreading across my body now shackling every step I try to make away from the chaos. Silence just couldn’t hold me and I open my eyes and shout out. Shout out into that deserted paths. Into the addictive nothingness. Again, and again.

I see black and red humans walking by, my shouts inaudible to them. I can see my voice traveling but none could intersect the gloss cover they have on their jar full of stories. One by one they start moving away from me towards a boundless infinity. Now my voice starts to strain as if I can feel his hands around my neck with his words making scars on it and he doesn’t care. He tightens the loop of his fingers, I feel the adrenaline rush going down my spine until I choke. Until my breath freezes and the nightmare breaks. I am under the spell of the music still playing softly in my ears as the alarms rings.

I feel myself pulling out of that room in my brain- the bloody butcher house of the stories that we made once. Just then I feel the gravity of tiredness around the blue lines of my eyes like I haven’t slept for weeks. People around me have that anonymity in their glances when they look at me. They call me Insomniac. But every morning I look at the cringes on my bed sheet and remember that I like every perfect human close my eyes.

Like every peaceful child, even I have a dream. It’s only in there that I don’t sleep Only in those dreams and invisible scars on my neck where I fight the brutal battles every night and wake up once again under another hopeful mask that maybe not again tonight.

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