Imagine

Imagine
Let me paint a picture for you, if you can, imagine
the image of a 9 year old boy watching tv, playing with toys, dancing around, standing in front of the fridge for hours, being stopped doing so by mother (wasit down) The whole montage of movement will be shot at waist level, at the point of view of the child.
Cut to Night
Show mother tucking in son, walking out of room, but turning to look back at her son, then proceeds to shut door.
Pitch Black

What do these dreams entail?
Horror, then confusion, then more horror.
The feeling of being scared, comforted by a mother, and then scared witlessly again.
By a mother turning to look back after kissing her son and screaming bloody murder, but not in fear but almost mystified by a demonic figure, which could or could not be lurking in the young boy's closet, just waiting to consume the entire room in pure darkness. That is the fear the young child is feeling. That is what he is seeing behind his eyelids.
No, he won't wake up screaming, but crying and scared of the darkness creeping in on his blurred vision. If he called to his possibly manic-mother, would she come and comfort him? Or scream until the young boy's heart exploded? He peers timidly at his closet door, concentrating on the door knob, waiting incessantly for the knob to turn, waiting for the unknown to be known
Under the bed is a fearsome black hole of conscious horror. Fear of the feel of ghostly fingertips against naked toes and limbs.
He tries to close his eyes, but sudden noises and groans coax him out of pseudo-sleep. How can you sleep when your deathly afraid of your own mind?

Author’s Note [Where do these awful images come from in such a pure and innocent boy’s mind? What is it about the unknown that is so terrifying? Are our imaginations too much to handle while we are alone? In the dark, scared? How long before dawn, and the rise of the comforting sun, to chase the demons away from our closets and put us back to bed?]

So where does that leave him, the young and terrified? With enough screaming, anyone will come. Though they are not always who you wanted to come. Or perhaps it is just his imagination.




Sincerely Yours,
Alfred Lynch