Fire in the Wind

A "stream of conscience" esque prose inspired by drink, success, failure and obsession...

…and awake with new prospective on the previous night’s dreams that make me suspect my secrets had been ignoring me; they are living on and without my knowledge. But then I come upon my own body, so thin and ill, lying face down across the threshold between the familiar cold wood floors in darkness and the lush, moist, light of the natural evening with its forgiving Moon. ---You see my secrets divulged themselves to the Moon, guiltlessly, without me.---But I still lie here, across this threshold. I am bones and skin by this time. Somewhere, a voice called out from the living evening. I cried because I feared that I might never respond to the voice. But at the lift of my head my bone and skin were light, almost liquid, and I called toward the night. There is no answer, but I trip and skip and fly into the lush nature. Wooden floors lie ten steps back. The moonlight voice is an unknowable distance forward. Ten more steps into the night, a kind face will permit me a ride through the swampy glades glistening under the moon. The first moments of the trip were excitement and freedom, playful reverence at riding so far. We are riding too far; I must return. The swamp deeps wish me drown in them! The moon sees and knows too much of me from my betrayer secrets. Please! Back to wood floors with walls surrounding; they are opaque walls that let in sun light, no moon light. I will sit here alone, without my treacherous secrets. Which is all well, because the true secret is me; just me. Secrets do not have their own secrets. I am my own secret, so I have none. Just hide me and no secrets will be revealed.