Having been an orphan, I was used to being in crowds, in lines, surrounded by noise. I've slept in dorms, barracks, trenches and trains.
Sleeping on trains was easy for me, even when all us G.I.'s were herded to and fro during the war. Even then, I could always sleep like a baby. The steady sound of the wheels on rails have always played for me like a lullaby.
I thought I heard her ask me a question, but I nodded and paid her no mind.
The rhythmical sound kept my head under, let me dream of all the places I had been, all merged together. I revisited faces of friends gone, still living somewhere in my head. Jim was there. Talking like he'd never died. Talking like there was still a future. We had plans. We still met, still talk about them.
Walls fell and I lost sight of him.
Noises, smells, muffled cries, and the rhythm kept pushing me down into another corner of dreams.
Mother was there. I was only a child and yet I can still recognize her face. I can't recall her voice though. She never speaks here, always at a distance, but I know it's her.
I've heard people talk about bad dreams - their nightmares. I don't have them. Maybe it's because the places sleep takes me isn't as horrific as the places I've been. Dreams are filled with ghosts that speak but can not touch. I've seen the monsters in my life.
It's during the waking hours, my mind reminds me of the bad things I have seen. And the bad things I have done. So I welcome dreams.
Rhythm and sleep takes me to the end of the line.
1 day ago