Night, night

She was half asleep, when the nighttime ghost would come.  She had read in books, and in words and in the voices of people talking about energy vampires, that there were succubi, but couldn't remember which was male and which wanted women.  Since she was a late teenager it had taken place.  Deep in the night of her bed, when all the boys had said goodnight, he would come.  There were so many faceless shadows which held her down in near dream time, when she couldn't move or yell.  She felt the heavy weight of the bodily pressure on her, but there was no body at all.  Just like the wet leaves, all in the heaviest blanket, suffocating her, and then having its way.  She never felt violated by any of these creatures, since she always knew in dreaming she was insatiable and wanted any and all of it.  Like grey murky beings fucking her into another world.  It wasn't exactly pleasurable, there were no details, no specific sensations to draw from, it wasn't like life at all, but it held a purpose, an energy that took from her. And they liked to take small pieces from her, in her teenage bed in the night.  It made no matter to her, since it was shapeless and without form.  It drew from her, without actually being inside her pelvis or her heart, but just inside the cloud in which she lived, in her dreaming head. 

It wasn't like life at all.  The one where her heart and her desires got her into trouble.  The endless conversations and this idea that there had to be a plan.  Decades later, she wondered how most people even managed to speak to each other with a true face.  How they had to remove themselves from form, and become those same shadows when enacting every one of their desires for someone.  What problems came from spreading your legs and opening up your mind, nothing that can't be undone in dreaming time.  Push yourself, give more, want more, and climb on into that world where you fuck yourself into a frenzy, burst your heart from its seams and set fire to the person you pretend to be when you let the air glide past you in daytime, caressing the fool in you and laughing at your ideas of strength, power and being a God.  We are all part of that equation, but no one wants to take the reigns.  They have to overpower the sacred and the truest aspects of love into some struggle for normality, to paste false powder made of glue and impotence onto their bodies, raise themselves below the thing that they could achieve and spend each night dour and lonely in someone's arms.  While the shadow vampires fuck you into their dark, bottomless grey world, night after night.

This didn't last forever in hers, either.  One night, there was a face.  A face which presented itself to her in a dreaming fashion.  There was mud on his shoes, and she was pregnant, in this dream.  There was information which she couldn't understand.  In that far-off place of green she loved so - but she was English in this dream life - transplanted, and someone taken care of by this boy's father.  This boy who haunted her, from outside her bedroom window years before she came to be an adult.  It was in early adulthood when he would seduce her every single night, sometimes before she could even fall asleep. Her body would writhe, and want, and try so hard to fulfill itself, only to the chagrin of the empty, quiet room.  That was when the dreams would come, the colours would come alive, his taste in her mouth, his hands fashioning a golden cage all over her body and the softness inside herself would harden and rise up, become a queen among nations of all who would allow themselves to see, that we all held the same truth, in our same liquid selves, voices as each piece of mosaic that could not remember its own, real name.  His name was Michael, Patrick, or the other way around.  She had dark hair still, as did he and his father.  There was an invading horde, and much fiery dirt and straw.  The wind whipped terribly about them, and their lives, taking from their simplicity what it wanted, through empire and expectation.  There was a baby inside her, a son she was supposed to have.  But then she'd wake up, back in this life, back in this house, back into this impotent lifestyle.  But that was many years ago.

Since then she'd obsessed, loved, felt torn apart by and let down by a handful of precious boys.  She played every game there could be, wore every mask she could muster, and became that insatiable presence, in the mounds of their hair, their egos, in the lightning strikes that their combined thrusts would produce, sweating and apologetic always in mid march, debasing herself happily as the women who once said that the most profane of acts made her feel the most innocence.  Shame is supposedly a turn on, they say.  Not when you've been taken by ghosts since you were a girl, since the boy from your dreams made incarnate and present an entire life you and he once knew, in the western moors and the setting sun that saw it play out, again and again.  Not when you can coarse your bullying mind to empty itself, of every inclination to learning, or giving up, when your ass follows wildly and takes you both to dream time, fucking and spitting and kissing yourself into re-creation, into godhood.  Into the kind that knows not where dreams end and life begins...the slow, constant curve of her cunt baptising you into a new world, a new existence which comes brightly as the new day's dew, dripping sunshine on the side of her neck just beneath the wanting of the dawn.

~ M. Lucia