• Our bodies are material nonexistent things.

    “Lay her down in her gingerbread coffin.
    She's so pretty all dressed up in white.
    Lay her down in her gingerbread coffin.
    When we need her, she'll rise to the light.
    (It's a flickering, beautiful sight.)”

    --Rasputina
    Gingerbread Coffin


    The snow filled forest lane haunts my dreams. Fading into my sleep, immersing me, changing me. The snow filled lane that leads to no where I know. The world's a white and gray charcoal drawing; leaning trees bar the road, curve, arch, creating this secret frozen avenue in my mind. Every night I find myself there, abandoned there. Hidden there. Every night I find myself walking down that lane, down that path, with purpose. Toward the clearing at the end, toward something. Every night I feel the chill of the powder burying my feet, and every night I feel the drag and swish of my deep purple cloak pull in the snow. Every night I know I've changed, I have purpose. And every night I travel down the snow filled lane of dreams and desire, uncertain of where or who I am, and all the same, aware of both.
    This is my place. This snow filled lane of neither here or there. This is my place and I don't know how to find it. Ever approaching the end of the lane, crooked tombstones rise from the white like old teeth, grinning, grimacing, inviting. Marred by the black trunks. Stone crucifix here, headstone there. Trees in between. Always moving steadily, nearing the end, cautioned with death. Always so close, the light of the opening peeking between branches, consuming. Almost there, heavy step after heavy step. Cold wind pushing my hair from my face. The light growing brighter, brighter, always brighter. Only to be destroyed by the maddening beeping of my alarm clock. The ground trembles, snow falling from the trees as I sit up, determined to keep my eyes closed, determined to stay in the lane this time. This morning I will not wake up, I tell myself. Empty promises. This morning I will stay. This morning I will stay, I hope. The light wavers, flickers like a loose light bulb in a lamp, the world shuddering, blinking in and out like a bad signal.
    Reaching hand, searching for the alarm clock. Inquisitive fingers fumbling over dials, buttons. There. Found it. The world fading, losing reality. Becoming smaller, less real. Transparent, losing substance as I try to hang on, silencing the beast at my bedside. Struggling to hold on as the snow darkens, becoming black, the trees becoming one with this darkness, the tombstones enveloped. Fading, gone, morning light piercing my eyelids. The piercing notification that the time to rise has come once again, that morning has come once again and life must go on. And for another day, my lane is lost. Fall leaves waver in my window, fiery heads shaking in the October breeze, bright against the white sky. Good morning beautiful, good morning fray. The world is threadbare, and here you are today.
    The world seems to be laughing at me. I can feel it. Mocking me. Sullen, I roll out of bed. Welcome-back-to-reality coffee simmers in the pot, black as my memory of the night before. The scent wafting, waking me up, melting the snow from my still dreaming mind.