Visitors

The small light above the stove, left on to guide the sleepers who stumble and shuffle with a subconscious urge, bathed the apartment in a warm glow that belied the cold floors and the chill of the early morning. Fresh with the faces of the past, each calling out to be saved and, ultimately, left behind, the half awake perceive half the world and half the dream, superimposing one upon the other. I pulled on the jeans left on the floor only hours ago and weighed the need for a shirt against the time already passed since I had pulled myself, mid tempo, from the reconstruction of a past remembered dimly and added to by the guilt of my self-destructive drives; from the deep sleep and the cues of deceit, a regretful dream of the haunted.

I learned long ago to trust the instinctive pull of my deepest thoughts and only rarely am I left without results to satisfy my trust. I climbed the stairs and turned on another light simply to prove to my would-be visitor that, "No, I'm awake. No bother. Please, come in.", knowing that such politeness is rarely believed, but necessary.

These instincts, only barely perceived by the sleeping mind, work to assemble the narrative, forcing some perceptions, letting other conclusions settle like snowflakes in a globe shaken and left, while the dream supplies the associations to the real world and all I knew was that someone was waiting on the other side of the door, waiting to be admitted, waiting for recognition, waiting to be allowed entrance and never once did it occur to me that it might be more fantasy than real, because it simply is both and either is enough; both are equally important. Why? Why am I climbing these stairs, in the middle of the night? Who is there? Why do you come to me, like this, into the small hours before dawn where I live exposed and vulnerable, where the curtains drawn across my reason entangle my emotions and leave me bereft of defenses? Who has come out of the past, out of the cold? Who desires entrance and address and who requires my attention, long forgotten but never completely lost?

I stood in the harsh light, cold and half dressed, pausing only for a second before I pulled on the door and stood dumbfounded staring into the empty night. Had I taken too long? Had they despaired at waking me and left for solace elsewhere? But no, there is no one. The snow is undisturbed, no footprints to see, leaving me more disturbed than resolved, simply because the visitors, the demons demanding of me my time and my attention are calling from within. As I shut the door I shivered, not from the cold but from the knowledge that as I descend these stairs I will find, ensconed in my rooms, the visitors I see only in the darkest hours before dawn and who have the power to pull me from the deepest sleep to demand an accounting and restitution for the things I've done to them. Sweet sleep, I fear, is beyond me now.