In my sleep I have no sense of sound. Every creak in the house goes unheard, every clap of thunder hidden in reality. I sleep in peace, and dream of a night where I am not afraid to put my hands to my ears in fright. I dream of a self conscious princess-like sleep, an adorable doze.

I feel guilty, a puppet with its strings cut. I have no balance anymore, and I am covered head to toe with anxiety. It strikes me that I might be clinically depressed. It scared me to think that the only thing coming to mind was Sylvia Plath. Her prominence in poetic society is dominated mostly by her suicide. The only other thing I thought of belonged to well crafted, well thought out envy.

Envious of a dead poet, imagine that. My subconscious must have had a field day.