The Posthumous Dialectic

A slip of paper falls to the floor

slicing the air

waking me up.



Cold sweat and clammy hands,

still dreaming,

I grapple with a pretense of reality.



Leaving the dilapidated mattress

soaked in last nights mares

I step onto cool marble



A few steps to the window

to the night - to the stars

clutching my reality to my chest



The night air is still

and heavy with the scent of hibiscus

I close my eyes begging to be awakened.



A slight breeze lifts

and falls immediately

leaving me with nothing more or less



My pulse quickens

I hear a noise outside my door

a quick look and a decision to ignore it.



I cannot hear the scratching sounds made at my door.

I do not want to know what or who is outside.

I will not open the door.



Is it fear?

Is it the unknown?

Perhaps it is opportunity...



Unwillingly I find my head against the door

weighing options

feeling the coolness through the wood.



I know there is nothing outside

a void, empty space

just there to be filled.



I look down at my reality.

I close my eyes

recognize my nightmare.



I turn to lean against the door.

the room is bare.

there is no bed, there are no windows.



There is nothing

but a door

and my grasp on reality.



The door opens.

I stand on the threshold.

there is nothing ahead of me, nothing behind.



What would it mean to take a step either way?



A slip of paper falls to the floor

slicing the air

waking me up.