The Reality of Kites
Sleeping, for most, is the negative space. Dark Matter. The absence of a void. Simple.
But my sleep is purposeful—it’s reality. My friends worry, as the weather grows cold and the darkness descends. They think I’m descending too. And maybe I am. But what can I do; when the whole world is shrinking into itself, scattering shells and memory across the ground.
Like Summer was a dream.
When I sleep, the whole world is alive again—I have control.
I compose songs. I direct films.
I ran with a kite and it blew me away. The kite was red, and my flight was reality.
I gather my nightmares and keep them in a box beneath my bed. I’ve been doing it since 1st grade. When the witch in the window watched me through the dark, she told me she’d take me. Each morning, I shake them out of my defective dreamcatcher, like the time I died on my front lawn and no one noticed. Couldn’t hear me cry. Or, like running from wolves uphill, with a baby girl clutched in my arms. I search my nightmares like a photo album, for that pinpoint moment when my terrors shifted from monsters to brutally temporal reality.
I drive around at night, through all these haunted places, hoping the memories anchor me. There’s something sacred in a space that’s swarming all day but desolate at night. Can a place be both holy and haunted? Tonight, across the field and past the bleachers, flashing lights look like the ones from the bridge I used to hide beneath. I wish I could feel this way by the headstones or even in Church. I wish I could feel that sense of reverence and awe that overcomes me while walking through street-lit snow. Drifting to my car, where I will melt.