Boots

Pulling off her boots and kicking each one to polar points across the floor, she sunk back on the couch and began to devour a bowl of potato chips. There was nothing worth her attention on the television, but between the chips and the remote, she disappeared into the blankness of repetitive activity until sleep overtook her.

She awoke some hours later and stumbled into her bedroom, and sleeved herself between sheets. Hers were not pleasant dreams, but rainbow-twisted journeys to unknown places where she jumped from one figure, one existence, one realm to another, without rest.

There were no great revelations, no truths detailed in dream speak, only the sallow sheen of ancient juxtapositions of memory; old loves, fears and wisps of forgotten conversations, commingled into a waltz of swirling metaphors. Nonexistent languages echoed from vested tongues until morning light broke through, leaving nothing of the nearly targeted bull’s eye of surprise.

She had almost grasped it. It had been that close. But now, it was time to wake up and pull her boots back on and face the day and the many delusions which harried her.