Blurred syncope illuminates my subconscious. Tendrils of sound pull back the dark veil, hiding reality in dreamscapes and nightmares. It reigns over me like cloud cover gathering between fronts. The booming decibels fill the sky in my mind and I am lost, running, and sinking into what was empty spaces and that are now filling with black blood, paralysis, and screams.
I might have hurt someone this past week. I don’t remember. More of my memories are lost to the white void. An empty canvas waiting for moments to paint what once was.
I hurt everywhere. My arms have scratches on them, and small oval bruises on my legs. Where was I? Why do I have these?
“Where did you go?”
“Who?”
“Where are you right now, M-“
“I don’t know. Where are you?”
My therapist rests on his comfy royal blue high-back chair beveled in gold rivets. Oak legs. It’s gorgeous. He doesn’t fit into it, like it belonged to someone else.
Do I belong here?
I hear him ask me again where I’m at, but the muse pulls me away like the tide ready to wash away trinkets of secrets from the mainland. Carrying me through a drifting and swirling storm of nothing real.
-M.R.-
Moveka Rame 
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