von Pau Krieg
I awake from violent dreams and feel overwhelmed by the creations of my own mind.
A sense of separation settles in when I dig my fingers into my blanket, the crumpling
sound and softness under my fingers giving me proof of my waking. Still, I cannot
As I lay awake with my eyes open, struggling to focus them, seeing nothing beyond
the images of the night. I tell myself these ghastly visions aren’t who I am. I feel they
do reflect some of my pain. Perhaps this explains why they are so hard to let go of.
How nice it would be if I could channel these thoughts of creation into something
profound and positive. A poem, a drawing, a collage of moments.
I want to hold myself as I wake up, tell myself it will be okay but… I can’t. Dishonesty
feels entirely superfluous when its origin and recipient are both yourself. I don’t have
the strength left that is required for such an act of deceit. All of it employed to handle
the dream or “simply” push it away. If we carry on with a policy of honesty: there is
no simplicity in it, just a draining necessity. I’m aware there is no choice but to move.
Carry on with my day. All my dreams still stick though, no way for me to peel them
off my naked skin. Shouldering them, a noticeable weight on my heart as I pour my
The day is just before me. I need to think of the next step. Strike a thing off my todos.
I make the conscious effort to pull my attention away from the tightness in my
chest. Redirect my focus. Push the images back. It feels as if a fraction of the strength
I should’ve recovered as I was sleeping has already diminished as I blinked open my
eyes. Another part used up by my attempt of movement, with a weight dragging me
to the ground, begging for a dreamless night.
I must’ve stood up. My mind so distracted, barely registering my own body.
The minutes melt away.
I see a swallow glide across the chimney,
as I glance outside the window.
I turn and move on in my attempt to be a person,
part of me stays,
waiting for another bird.