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by Arni Arendt Casting loneliness to the winds of sleep, I accidentally dream of the past. Like that time I fell off the tricky bars, and no one came to help me. Forging a path through a jungle of regret, I accidentally dream of that time I sleepwalked out into the snow, chased by the giant boll weevil (I didn't know what a boll weevil was, but I knew it was bad). No one discovered that I was not in my bed. Finding my way back inside, I climbed the creaking stairs alone, my feet foot-shaped blocks of ice. Then, in bed, staring at the sagging strips of ceiling paint, reaching down to get me, I learned how to not sleep. Inflicting memories of shame on myself, I accidentally dream of that time I said the wrong thing, and the teacher made me stand in front of the class, the dark circle of wetness on the front of my pants slowly growing larger and larger. Wandering through a maze of preemptive embarrassment, I accidentally dream of the time I got up the nerve to talk to that girl. I can still see the odd look, on her face before she walked away. Mastering the art of self chastisement, I accidentally dream of the time I postponed proposing to the woman I loved until she went off to Alaska with that guy. Leaving me with nothing but a note hastily written stuck under the windshield wiper of my car. Concluding that regret can become a permanent condition, henceforth, I will avoid accidents. Copyright 2014. All rights reserved.
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