Lately, my nights have (aberrantly) been without dreams; yet at an unknown hour of Saturday morning, I was jolted into full conscious by a withering shudder. Instinctively, my mind turned to that which has been my chief worry in recent days.
I cannot say how it came that my heart beat so. It hammered as a horse’s hoofs rising to the gallop, and echoed as the only sound may on a still night. I mumbled something to myself before rolling over and returning to slumber. I woke some hours later with a slight chill, as is typical for this time of year. The day broke fine and clear. The sky was cobalt and without cloud, not as had been forecast.
Is it an omen? Was my worry mislaid? Should I harbour my doubts?
I am more worried, however, knowing that I have been through a harrowingly similar experience, albeit at a much younger age. I was barely 10. Yet this is not the forum for its discussion; not at this juncture. I know the desperation and sadness that stalks about, like a voiceless terror that will not lift. I know how guilt raps on the door.
The forecast clouds of lead arrived a day late, making Sunday suitably miserable. Thus far, Monday has been a battle, which I think the sun is winning, but it is still cold.
Take my hand. The wolves bay distantly. Fear not. Shield yourself between the voluminous folds of my cloak. For soon it will be morning.
I cannot say how it came that my heart beat so. It hammered as a horse’s hoofs rising to the gallop, and echoed as the only sound may on a still night. I mumbled something to myself before rolling over and returning to slumber. I woke some hours later with a slight chill, as is typical for this time of year. The day broke fine and clear. The sky was cobalt and without cloud, not as had been forecast.
Is it an omen? Was my worry mislaid? Should I harbour my doubts?
I am more worried, however, knowing that I have been through a harrowingly similar experience, albeit at a much younger age. I was barely 10. Yet this is not the forum for its discussion; not at this juncture. I know the desperation and sadness that stalks about, like a voiceless terror that will not lift. I know how guilt raps on the door.
The forecast clouds of lead arrived a day late, making Sunday suitably miserable. Thus far, Monday has been a battle, which I think the sun is winning, but it is still cold.
Take my hand. The wolves bay distantly. Fear not. Shield yourself between the voluminous folds of my cloak. For soon it will be morning.