Wednesday, 26 November 2014


Have I not made myself clear? Travel dreams race through my repeated hours if insomnia...train, airplane, bus, van. I am exhausted with queues, galloping for entrances, never reaching the appointed seat. A maelstrom of frustration that shatters any chance if deep sleep. Head chatter with galloping whispers. Reminders of the coming holiday bad the lists of Christmas cards to send. Instead I toss and turn around in a spinning spirograph of anxious dreams, sending postcards from the edge. Written snapshots of places I have never seen. Eagles sitar through the sheets. I hear their wings accompany my spurious cries. I watch the badger want for they eat fish? Would they love river trout or anglers bait? I feel insane. My night gown sticks to my skin, and I aware in the dawn darkness crying out as though I have already disappeared in a luddite's nightmare. Royal mail in news again. Letters. Post office lucky if you can. Who writes anymore? She made herself get up.

The copyright of this post belongs to Claudia Anne

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