The Bugs Crawl

She wakes and the bugs crawl.

That’s what they do. They crawl and fall and drift behind the ceiling, trapped between two layers—one wood and one transparent membrane. The light they cast is reflected off the sap constantly flowing down the walls. It dances about the room and little is left in shadow. The bark bed is rough, but comfortable—the moss growing sporadically on its surface is soft and green. The grass beneath her bare feet is cool but not cold. There is no door, no need for privacy these days, and she can see herself in a small pool of water. Her hair is long. Brown. Out of her window she can see for miles. The world is green and blue, the air is clear. Nothing in the sky but oxygen and birds. She raises her tanned hands to her hair and

Lifts off the visor. Her eyes hurt and water for a moment, but that is to be expected. It’s the change in surroundings, in light. The mind becomes confused. Her apartment is dingy, there is very little actual oxygen in the air, but she seems to breathe fine. There is no grass, no bugs—not much light at all in fact—certainly no pool of water, too expensive. She checks her watch; it’s 257 beats (internet time), plenty of time before work. Good thing too, she desperately needs sleep. Been spending too much time with the visor lately, gotta rest. She’s already undressed and so can just slip onto her couch and close her eyes. She can feel herself lying down and all she can see is black, but it isn’t long before

She realises that she isn’t going asleep, and her eyes aren’t even closed. She stands and breathes in deeply, can feel her clothes on her body. The walls are soft, and grey in the dark, and she has trouble remembering where she is or who. There are no buttons in her blouse, no laces in her shoes. She is dressed in white. The distant growl grows louder. The room is moving. The growl is whispers. She cannot stand it. She hides her head in her hands. They are pulling at her hair. Telling her things she knows aren’t true. Except,

When she feels the warm body next to her in bed, she can remember. It was a dream of course, but can a dreamer be another dreamer’s dream? She’s tired; it’s too late to think about such things. She gets out of the bed quietly and pads to her bathroom. She needs a shower. The door is thick and will block out any noise. The water warms in a few seconds; the soft noise is comforting to her. Even the harsh light cast by the fluorescent bulbs are a welcome relief from the dark void of her dreams. Or her dreamer’s dream’s dreams. She steps inside, the water slick beneath her feet, too slick maybe. She slips, of course, and hits her head. And as she watches a trail of her own red blood flow down the drain, her eyelids float downwards—closing. It’s not long before she is quiet and the next

Thing she knows is she’s back in her room. The grass still cool, the moss still green. And the bugs still crawl. Thank God.

© Daniel Doyle 2001