The Calm Of Racing Thoughts
I attempt to hold onto fleeting sensations, trying to pin them down to a tangible image. For a moment, I envision a bird trapped in a cage, its wings fluttering in a desperate attempt to escape. But just as quickly as the image forms, it dissipates.
In the corridors of an unfamiliar house, I'm drawn to a room with a door slightly ajar. The muffled tones of a conversation beckon me. Pushing the door further, I see a tall figure standing by the window, his back turned. It looks like John. Maybe. Our eyes meet, and there's a fleeting moment of recognition, but it's shrouded in uncertainty. The atmosphere in the room thickens, charged with an unspoken tension. "Why are you here?" My voice barely rises above a whisper, the doubt evident. The figure smirks, "It's a dream, Mi. Everything's familiar and nothing is."
Suddenly, the scene shifts, and we're in a quaint café. The soft hum of conversations and the clinking of cups surround us. My heart races with a mix of anticipation and dread. I've been meaning to confess something to the person I think is John.
"John," I begin, my voice shaky, "There's something I've been meaning to tell you."
He leans back, his expression unreadable. "What is it, Mi?"
Before I can answer, I'm jolted awake. A thin layer of sweat covers my skin, making it feel clammy and cold against the sheets. My breathing is shallow, and I try to steady it by taking deep breaths. To calm the racing thoughts in my mind.