I was telling myself a story. The same story I’ve been telling myself most nights for more than thirty years. It’s a bed time story I needed to tell to get to sleep. It gets away from me and dramatizes my inner- and intra-personal struggles as I sink into sleep. I’m usually late to see the signs, but I’m getting better at receiving the wisdom.
It’s pretty weird right now. I’ve been pulled into another world by the tentacles of an inter-dimensional leviathan, a monster made of reckless psychic energy. I was possessed with power enough to slay an enemy and almost destroy my friends. The creature carried them off, leaving me in a landscape lit in a sickly reddish-pink glow, as if cast by a fluorescent Budweiser sign. I was alone with one eye wounded, a double-headed axe chained to my arm, and nothing but horizon before me.
Weeks later and little has changed. One night, buildings appeared only to topple on faceless victims. My vision has improved and I’ve transformed the prosthetic weapon into my own wings and claws. But nothing else will appear, not the leviathan, not my friends, nor any new enemies. I’m looking for a fight and all I get is loneliness, or at least aloneness.
Maybe that’s it. When I met Mary I could contentedly sit at a bar and read and write on my own. That’s how she found me on our first evening together. I wasn’t sure she’d show for our meeting, so I found a little light to read and drink by. She was late, but I’m not sure I noticed.
Now I’m here at a pub we frequented, drinking water, writing a blog post, and waiting on no one.
All is right in my world.
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason