It’s the witching hour. That time every night I awake from my slumber to gather my thoughts and venture into the mystical land of my fortunate imagination.
As a child this was always what I’d do. The clock would tick at night but I wouldn’t hear it, but always, at that hour without hesitation my eyes would snap open.
The colours would drift in as I navigated the realms and heard the beating of the drums.
The red soaked sky with pinks and purples sprayed across in a random configuration.
Nobody there but me and my happy place.
As I grew older I’d still wake. Still hear the beating of the drums but my eyes wouldn’t adjust.
Sat, upright in my room, eyes wide open and being consumed by the darkness around me. I never questioned it, I knew what this was but I always hoped one day I could make it back to that wonderland.
The Golden Arches stood as an entrance, the red cobbled paths balanced in the air, forming the lane to the red oak woods. As you wondered the drums grew loader, every night I awoke.
Now the drums were slow, tamed as if they were in sync with me as an adult.
Sitting in the darkness alone. Navigating the blackness that consumes me.