I woke up at three. My heart was reverberating through the mottled sheet. It was wet with sweat.
I was between two nightmares. I woke up startled after being run out of a decrepit house. It wouldn’t be too long until I slipped out of consciousness once more and became a spitting and vengeful cowboy, threatened by the red fog created by my own self. In both dreams I felt myself to be at the end a horrible sense of resignation, of death-like futility.
Between those two nightmares there was a short period in which I lay.
I’ve known since I was a child that whenever you wake up from a nightmare, there is always an excess of sensitivity inside of you. I’ve also known since then that this sensitivity is accompanied by an absolutely phantasmagoric explosion of the imagination.
I ordered myself not to open my eyes, under any circumstances, as I’ve always done. This way, I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep too early, too soon.
I ordered myself to lay for a little while, until the rabbit beating against the wrinkled sheet would slow.
I ordered myself to think of something beautiful, trusting my imagination to provide an impulsive defense mechanism.
I saw myself exiting the back door of the market. By the back door of the market, you arrive at the Flower Market – only in my smeared mind then, it was more than the Flower Market; for this Flower Market spilled violently into an ivory ravine, crowned by a blue sky, a sky as blue as the eyes of the old man who stood upright in front of the ravine, wearing a tuxedo and holding a pot with a geranium inside. Seeing me enter the Flower Market with wondering eyes and sleeves too-long, he tipped his hat at me and turned his gaze back to the horizon, waiting eternally for a taxi. I knew he was one thousand years old.
And only then did I look around and recognize the Flower Market, overflowing with white chrysanthemums and supplications propagandizing their purchase. Rustling in the wind like the still-live flowers, skirts in yellow, red, green swept the dirty pavement. When I think of those skirts, I feel a lemon candy crushing underneath my tongue.
I left the Flower Market indefinitely. I was on the same train that I have always been on, that my mother has always been on, that her mother before her had always been on, and so on, and so on. I stood in the corridor of the train, which in that moment resembled Roman baths inundated with golden light dripping with spores. And a wind like a life blew through the open window. And he the wind blew my hair, which wasn’t my hair at all, but lighter and silkier, upwards and backwards, dancing with it through the corridor and beckoning it, and me, to follow him out the window.
And then I knew I would return to those beautiful somethings.
And then I fell asleep.