It Goes, Bump…in The Night

Where does inspiration come from?

It comes from recent rain and rainbows; music from your past, a babbling brook that loves to gossip; fresh cut grass that makes your tennis shoes green, or it can come from a beautiful woman that takes your breath away.

I’m a dude…

Depression however, can come from a baby laughing, the weird word on a roadside sign, the way you may see a person treat another, good or bad, or it can come from that sudden flash of understanding “Egads!” or a new, breath-taking perspective about something you weren’t even thinking about in just that moment; as a matter of fact you haven’t thought about it in sometime then…”BOOM” there it is….

Inspiration. Depression. Entwined?

Then, there’s the other place that inspiration / depression will come from….

It can come from the dark, when your eyes are closed and your mind is supposed to be at rest.

*Mine hardly sleeps anymore*

It can come to you in the night; where things will go “bump” or watch you from your closet.

Sounds like….scratching?

When the dark inspirations come, it is the type of nightmare that nightmares hope they never have….

It’s the really real, man.

I would not categorize what happened to me last night, while in my hard won repose, as a nightmare exactly…

I did not twitch, jerk, wet my bed; sweat profusely or wake up screaming; tangled in twisted blankets with all of my pillows on the floor….


*There had been a struggle*


I woke up, quietly.

My eyes did not jerk open in alarm or horror.

They didn’t open the way our eyes normally do.

They opened the way they do when you’re afraid of what you might see.

*What is that noise? *

“Am I back?”

Not “awake”….”Am I back?”

I remember whispering that to myself, this morning; I lay there for a while, in the dawning light; a small, gray sliver of sunbeam, crawling through the window.

This is what struck me a little later….

I had gotten up slowly, musing on how real the “episode” in my night terror had seemed and how much of it I seem to have remembered.

It wasn’t like your typical dream, or mine usually; running thru our fingers like water or sand as Dickinson would say.

*You can’t remember *

“God made memories so we can have roses in December…”

Or regret…every minute of every day.

This time, this one is sticking in my mind….

Like a bent fork.

I dressed slowly. I got up slowly. I moved slowly….

I was exhausted from the dream burden that I now drug thru my heart and mind.

*It’s all your fault*

*It’s all in my head*

Later, I walked up the sidewalk toward my office; under a cloudy morning sky… I stopped.

I thought…

Why did I whisper “Am I back” not “Am I awake”?

Was I somewhere else?

Did that mysterious part of my brain know something that I didn’t?

Of course it does.

It knows everything.

Just ask it…

How else could I explain the sudden return from this undiscovered country in my mind, unless it has known how to get there and back in the first place; like it’s been there before, as if though it were a real place.

My guide to everything wholesome…

One thing was for sure…

I ain’t going back…

The place…
The secret place…
The really real, dude….

A dark place where I go to scratch at old wounds and make them bleed.

It is a place where you cannot cry; only scream.

…only scream and scratch….

It is the place where you talk only to yourself…but you never listen.

*I’m not crazy*

But, in whatever Gods infinite goodness may be, however you look at goodness;

…there was no running or screaming in the “place”, nothing chasing me, nothing breathing in the dark…..

The only monster there, was me.

It feels better when I bleed….

This is the place I go; to re-visit mistakes and regrets; like old pals.

A prisoner of my own making.

I sit and stare; a silent witness in my own stupidity and ignorance; from back in the day.


Perfect recall… Ain’t it?

I can’t find my keys but I remember all of my dirty deeds.

Every. Single. One.

It is the place where you re-live your past and there is NOTHING THAT YOU CAN DO TO CHANGE ANY OF IT!

That’s the hilarious part!

The only power you have is to toss your head in your sleep “no….”


Or worse….stay awake.


So itchy…

You don’t gasp “wake up” because you don’t know that you’re asleep; you know…I know, that this is as real as it gets…

*Really real, dude*

In the awake place we can fool ourselves to quit dwelling on the past, to get on with our lives, to quit “beating ourselves up”; we’re only human after all, we all make mistakes.

Not there; not in the undiscovered, dark continent of our minds.

There is no way out.

It’s a circle, you see….

The monster that is you sits by me in a small, wet room and begins to tell me a story…..

*Same old song and dance*

It is a long story, it is a true story.

I’ve heard it all before.

But, there is always something new.

So, that’s refreshing.

….oh, so true….

*That’s what sucks the most*

“Am I back?”

You cannot protest, you cannot cover your ears, you cannot look away.

I have to look at myself, as I drone on….and on.

Yada. Yada. Yada.

In my mind.

The worst part is, is that you are unable to believe the excuses you’ve made anymore…


You are older now, you say. Wiser; plus, you know you’re a lying bastard.

You know your bullshit…

*Don’t fall for it*

Your monster that is you, knows that you’re a liar….

He knows how we can be….or was.

And he will never….EVER, let me forget.

Never ever forever is a long time.

But, I still try to soften the condemnations….it’s habit.

This isn’t really real, dude….is it?

“Am I back?”

When the monster that is me has finished with our tale, I just sit there swathed in fresh guilt and regret; all of the old wounds beginning to fester anew.

Goody gum drops.

The dream whip marks across your shoulders, burn and gape.

Begging…to be scratched.

No one can punish me with such ferocity, relentless spite, contempt, self-loathing and hate as can the very own monster that is me.

“Look what you’ve done” it
keeps saying…..

And I looked…..

“And the darkness he called night…


….My eyes

*I can’t seem to sleep while I’m screaming*

My eyes did not jerk open in alarm or horror.

They didn’t open the way eyes normally do.

They opened the way they do when you’re afraid of what you might see.

What I know is there…

Forever and ever, amen.

As Randy would sing…

“Am I back?”


I’m sitting here in our break-room writing this. I am looking around at the vending machines, a gurgling coffee pot and occasionally glancing up at the humming lights. I’ll tap a key or two on my laptop as a new thought or memory about last night comes to me.

“Am I back?”

I can’t tell…..anymore.


Wish I may…wish I fright.
It’s dark in here…

Loud, too.

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