In my mind I travel to new worlds,
worlds I’ve created, worlds tainted by books
and history, drenched in imagination. I’ve traveled
many times to these imagined worlds,
escaping the world full of
waking and doing and sleeping in endless cycles
to a world where I had a shaping role,
to a world where I saved the day,
to a world where I felt alive.
Somehow alive always meant almost dying
always stabbed or shot in the same place
right below the lowest rib on my right.
I fall into other-consciousness, a deep slumber
from which I must, but dread to awake.
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