2:43AM - Nightmare

That haunting dream of being cooed to sleep by death. His hand gently stroking the back of your hair as your attempts to call out are muffled by the steadily increasing warmth and blankness. The feeble attempts to call out are soon replaced by a pressing desire to wake up in reality. How much of this is a dream. What if death really is stroking my hair and coaxing me away from life through the disguise of a dream? After the fight is won, the thoughts and the fear of the dream remains like a residue on my mind. And the hair on the back of my head feels unnaturally smoothed. I hear the stairs creak. My curtains ruffle without the sound of much wind being present outside. I sit shaken. The peripheries of my vision narrow, sleep beckons me still. Despite the adrenaline its urging me back. But I know if I return this quickly the scenario will repeat, the narrative will play out again. And who's to say I'll be the victor of round two...? So I sit and busy myself. And say aloud to my sleeping family I love them, in spite of their inability to hear me. Then I write this down and it comes across a paranoid musing. How manic. This feeling, this fear. It stems from somewhere. It was started by something. Doesn't it? Wasn't it? I feel irrational and disturbed, but I haven't written so freely in months. Don't let this malevolent night be something final...