28

I wake to a shadow at my bedside, a humanoid figure that’s a concentration of darkness.

The pixilation typical to my vision is richer, but whereas in some cases I’m able to contemplate a whole progression of waking thoughts in that millisecond it takes me to start waking, this time there’s nothing but abrupt alarm.

I shout, although I don’t know if it’s in panic or in warning. The shadow disappears. Then it’s me being awake.

Fully.

I check the time: just after 1.34am. And it feels like that, like it’s not too deep into the early morning. Most of these encounters occur around this time.

There’d be a medical or scientific explanation about why that is – that I haven’t fully entered REM sleep or something like that. People are always explaining things in ways they understand, but I think sometimes the way we understand isn’t all there is.

My one truth is that these interactions are increasing in frequency.

Maybe it’s a sign of a growing dissonance in my life, a dissatisfaction with various personal and professional elements that would no doubt be common to so many for those around my age, but these are becoming entrenched, claiming real estate in my mind.

I get out of bed, feeling the need to walk off nervous energy that I didn’t even realize existed. My heart’s slowing back to its standard rate, so even that was triggered into some undeniable expectation.

Going into the kitchen, I grab a glass of water more as something to do, to occupy me, rather than out of genuine thirst.

Everything’s surreal at this time. Everything seems possible. I’m sure I’m being watched. The night – or the early morning, in this case – invites attention and polarizes the dichotomy. During the day we navigate our physical world to fulfil our needs and responsibilities. At this time, it’s like the physical world becomes malleable, trying to mold me into a vessel that can travel uncharted territory that only the night can offer.

As I begin making way back to my bedroom, I experience the certainty that I’m going to find somebody in my bed. This is something that’s often popped into my head, but now seems less a trivial thought and more something that’s likely.

I’m reentering a world that resembles my own, but isn’t my own, and there’ll be somebody in my bed. We’ll terrify each other. The shock will overwhelm me. This’ll be when every night fear I’ve ever had will manifest, and I’ll ricochet between them, fragmenting into nothing but a brokener mind.

Until I get back to bed, all things are possible, which mean’s everything possible, and each step elicits dread that grows progressively. This isn’t fear, though. That’s the thought that shoots through my mind. This isn’t anxiety, or anxiousness, but prescience.

I’m close to something now – not something corporeal, but some realization that’ll key into a greater understanding of the night, of myself, or where my mind’s going.

But, back in my bedroom, I find my bed’s empty.

The possibilities close down.

Maybe it’s incipient madness or an overactive imagination or somewhere in-between.

I should find comfort in that, in that conformity.

And, crawling back into bed, I feel comfortable.

Still, I don’t sleep again.