The stories run, as soon as my eyes start shutting, in medias res.
Every time I fall asleep, I’m in the middle of the movie. No credits opening or closing, no title card, just narrative. Films I’ve never seen, words I’ve never heard, dialogue I hear with my inner ear, novels whose print my mind’s sleeping eye follows. No dust jacket nor book cover, no opening page nor publisher information.
Only secret texts whose characters and plot only I know. And I never know how they end, just that they are.
It’s been this way since college, even further back perhaps. They stream, they print, they scroll, they project only on the insides. On the inner surface tissue, the wet and wrinkled matter of my hippocampus, deep within my temporal lobe.
I never wonder, what I’ll dream tonight, during my waking life, during the work busy day.
All I know is that only heavy sedatives can keep the words away
marcwritesmoorewords 