It’s nearly four in the morning and the sinus cavity over my left eye hurts. Since I’ve been up, I have edited a story and rewritten a poem. My wife is laying across from me gently snoring. But I am grateful for the four hours of sleep I got. In the darkness I can hear the box fan turning, as I listen and touch these tiny little keys.
Spinning cherubs cross my mind as I dream through my semi-consciousness. Closing my eyes I still see the sparkling little lights of red and black. They run in chains dancing across my eyes. As a child I would lay in bed and watch them dance. Bringing me comfort as a cowered under the covers waiting for the monsters to come.
There is still a fear that I feel when I tell my stories. Throughout my whole life words have danced across my mind, but I mostly kept them to myself. Fearing what others would say. The hatefulness and taunting laughter I can still hear. The shame I would feel. With nowhere to run, trapped in a corner. Helpless.
I lay here in the dark. Much older, but not much wiser. Letting those same fears torment me. Listening and accepting the words and images of that little boy from under the covers. Playing the poet and writer I’d dream of being. Embracing the darkness, not really fearing it, just listening.