The Puppet Girl

I’ve reached a point. A peak, a moment in time, where all my peaceful, dreamless nights, have fallen away into some deep pit that refuses to reveal the things that I might have once known.
Although maybe I imagined I was like that. Maybe I imagined those nights of peaceful sleep and perfect security. Those nights were dreams were myth to the likes of me.

Not that of screaming men and women; hanging, transfixed and paralysed in the air invisible ropes and chains, nailed to walls and crucifixes and buildings that just aren’t there.
Each faceless, hanging corpse emitting a light, a filthy, tainted glow that just shouldn’t be, like darkness that can meet with the human eye and been seen as image, felt as touch.

And that girl; that girl who seems so sweet, so perfect; the kind of girl who would hardly seem to fit into my nightmare at all if it weren’t for that long, white rope that she dragged behind her. The rope that seemed to reach out forever, stretching into the darkness, forever visible, yet an end never seen.

I was there as an external viewer, a third person, floating on every angle of intrigue and obscurity.

I could watch the girl wander far below me, through her field of suspended men and women, faceless as they were.
It must have been her “field”... her “crop.” For despite her appearance she seemed so calm, so in... Can it be called form?

Can form really exist in a dream? I mean, all those colours and sounds, movements and feelings are enigmas of the mind, simple thoughts stretched beyond any means of logic, although they mean everything that is in your mind. Secrets, truths, feelings and some more; can all this be called form?

And then... she saw me... although I felt, and still feel, that I wasn’t truly present in the dream, she looked directly at me and... pointed.