Roaming around the stewing seconds of midnight's feverishly loquacious hum, I venture out into the dark abyss of what is called the pantry, then shut it a tad too loudly with my knees and search for that bowl of barbecue-flavored french fries I adopted over from Midge's sister's birthday party. The microwave won't start this time but I still proceed to carry the fries over to my mess of a room, and almost slide (and gasp in surprise) in front of a Persian kitten due to its adorable size and untimely apperance before my bedroom door. My room is a box of tossed colors. I dress my cocoon of a bed with one of the two blankets I just got from the laundry this morning and burrow my shoulders in a recess of plush pillows and wool blankets, my nose fairly runny and the night strolling with the autumn chill pressing against my windowpane.
Then the midnight really sinks in, gregarious and hospitable in my heart, and I am not even halfway done with Toy Story 2 when the walls begin to close in, in a slow manner as I sniff my way to sleep. I faintly remember the scratch of my blanket's coarse patches against my right cheek, and my breath dipping into drones of anticipating snoring.
I dream of an ardor, cracking and creaking like a fireplace in a heart, ramshackle and barely visible but there. A nerve of agitation hangs unsteadily in swift swings atop this heart. An unconscious and tenuous sigh makes its way out of me, out into the dark, falling in the sweetness of pancake syrup, chafing and biting on my feet like five o'clock shadow. And in my dream I am innocuously sitting directly before the fireplace, my cheeks feeling aglow in my hands. A foliage of lackadaisical stars and dancing curtains obscures a kind of pain in a dreamy half-sleep, and the autumn outside morphs into an inclement weather - a tumult of white winter documentaries - like a promise sealed in favorable transformation. I struggle to find solace yet consciousness in a snug, partite chronicle.
A keenly exquisite pang of pain reverberates in the leaping fire. It is marginally extinguished as it playfully hops and flies around my head, dulling into twinges of childhood memories in my ears, and successfully tuning the dream to a vision of myself dozing off. The heart looks quite pensive, when I think of it, but in a way catatonic (not seen through the eyes, but the dream, and the slowly beating heart). There comes a myriad of bites of shedding dark in the light of my dream, rowing oars forgetting how to row, and a pair of svelte dancers falling to their knees and throats. My hands shift to shoo the silhouettes of nightmarish semblances away, deep back into the origami dream structure, but when I shudder awake the bites aren't immediately found throughout my arms and legs. They are deeply set in my heart that I did not know was also especially intoxicated with the dousing of warmth and the heralding of cold.
I myself feel (and am) disgruntled. My eyes adjust to golden rays of sunlight in the morning, and my movie, snack, and cat are not in my room. I stretch and stir in blankets of freezing temperature, my stomach, my memory, my lungs, and my comfort empty then vanishing altogether. I stare blearily at the ceiling for a good twenty minutes, then another ten at the floor with trepidation, because the cracks and creaks of the broken fireplace are now in the creacks and gaping maws of the floor.
Or what may be underneath it.
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