As the wind swiftly crashed the tent around me leaving my flesh exposed to piercing droplets of acidic rain, I woke stumbling a lethargic grog trying to catch up to the half-spent night. I always lament the incomplete dream halted by necessitated waking hours not longing for longer sleep, but an urge to see a vision through that hints a path of my future battles is turned away.
I walk. As though not accustomed to limbs carrying this burdening weight, I stagger my pace into tree limbs for stability. Losing control is not as devastating as I had once feared.
The fear comes in exciting doses of shifting concerns rushing in increasing intervals till time mashes all to one overwhelming isolation. The laboring rain is gone. Even the trees are gone.
I’m left to roam a parched earth weary of my steps. I can not float. Perhaps the vision is meant to abandon. As a child I witnessed my impending doom. This was a vision I could grasp. As an adult the vision alarms into an aim broader with me surviving for moments longer to serve. I remain idle.
As the wind reshapes my forgotten face into guiltless smirks that keep suspicious strangers from attacking, I seek coyly a silent cave trying to pray a solution, waiting for sleep to recapture a wondering mind urging a vision complete.
