I awoke from a dream
loaded with a deep sense of urgency and defeat
both coinsiding in my guts,
the air is stuffed, suffocating,
I sit straight on the bed,
sweat dripping from my neck down to my navel,
I kick against the sheets tangled around my ankles,
Where am I?
I fumble through the darkness of the four walls,
can barely see from the faint ray of orange light
seeping through the thin crack of cement,
as I find my way my hands knock at random articles—a stash of dusty books, a framed photograph of someone’s graduation, a rusty fake gun which must have once been a prop,
I wonder what kind of story do they hold,
Whose room is this?
I felt a pang of familiarity creeping up my neck,
like a sudden rush of blood in my head
the abstract of images came flashing, incoherent,
sending shivers across my skin,
and suddenly the little of air circulating is chill to the bones,
the hair on my arms prickle,
When did it become so dark?
I couldn’t find my way through,
How did it become so dark?
there must be a way out,
No matter which direction I go, there they are:
the four walls, the random objects,
steady, silent, and unmoving,
but my eyes seem to play tricks on me,
because they heave up and down, as if a form of breathing,
they’re alive and menacing,
coaxing me to find the lights and switch them on,
I will myself to move, and
like a mantra I echo:
find the lights,
switch them on.