There is a beach with fine white sand. A high moon streaked with some red cracks. There is a house, without doors or windows. It’s open yet it’s closed. It invites with a whisper I can feel more than hear. Come here, come in. I enter and it’s beautiful. Or it feels beautiful because I can’t really remember seeing anything I can touch or hold or keep. Then the moon disappears.
It’s bright outside and I want to leave but the house without windows or doors won’t let me. Or at least it feels like that because I can never find the way out.
A glass breaks from above and I am suddenly flying, picked up by something I can’t see. Then I am dropped softly, on a clearing which becomes a long path that ends in a cliff. I walk on a bed of grass, greener than Ireland, softer than feathers. I hear waves. Sometimes I see them, most times I don’t. But I always run at this part.
And I always reach the edge of a cliff. There is nothing below. No water, no earth, nothing. It’s dark. But it looks peaceful. And I suddenly feel terrified. But I know that I want to jump. Like it’s some test I can’t afford to fail. I can’t breathe. Or maybe I forget how to, for a minute. That’s usually when I feel the warmth of your arms around my belly. And it calms me enough to wake up.