I step out into the cold of night. My bare feet upon the wet grass. I consider going back to my warm bed. Beyond the light escaping through the open door, where the tall trees are gathered, is so dark that these places lack detail. These places beyond the freshly cut grass.

I hear sounds from all around. Noises past the confines of this yard. I listen for the sounds that woke me from a deep sleep. I watch for movement amongst the pitch black of night.

My mind creates things not present, sounds and sights created by my imagination, lingering just past my line of sight.

Is any of this real? Am I still dreaming in my bed upstairs?

Categories: writing

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