In my dreams I see trees.
The birch tree I slammed into while on my skis, the oak tree I slammed into while in my car. I would wake up at that awful moment of impact, when the world turns fuzzy and painful, but the drugs keep me prisoner. I am my prisoner. I am my keeper. I have done this to myself. I have turned my brain into mush with repeated assaults and now I can’t sleep, and now I poison myself with drugs and soon I will have cancer or something. And then I really won’t sleep.
And now, the trees on the road bend and sway, releasing scrawny, malnourished arms to snare me and scare me. And I wake up, only to realize I am still clutching the wheel, I am still wandering. I am still. I am driving and the reaching arms are my own because I did this to myself and I can’t awake but I do not sleep and this is my forever. And this road I am on is a circle.
