The Chronicle Gambia

In The Dead of Night



A new friend.

One of those things that happen to other people 

I lie staring up into the dark

I conjure up scenes of many colors and make a world of the ceiling

I muse over how my thoughts are all in English and how unfortunate that is

– the thief didn’t even spare my imagination… 

I chuckle as I remember the first character I ever created, and her silver brooch, the heirloom.

The duvets and drapes, blue skies and cunning cows. Her name was Katie and she had blond ponytails. She didn’t mind getting dirty and she found a way to fly.

Eleven years now, one of those books that never get completed, floating in the blue. I don’t know where that notebook is.

I try counting sheep, they become stars. 

I never bothered to learn the constellations, so they become what I want.

Centaurs and elves and twits.

Magic fingers and flying peaches.

What do you do in the dead of night when eating sounds like an unwelcome, laborious task? The rumble of my tummy is a comforting discomfort.

Why did I stop writing journals?

Why is there this consistent, nagging feeling that I cannot place a finger on?

Why, oh why do bats look so controversial, with such ugly voices to match? What is beauty to them?

A meeting tomorrow…

How many more before I close my eyes in eternal sleep?

Living is exhausting as it is exhilarating. 

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