Fuchsias on a Cotton-Lined Box


I think I went mad last night. I dreamt.
I dreamt of the night and bluebirds flying in an endless sky,
their blooming tails casting light back at an unseeing eye.
Not really. I kid. I do kid, a lot.
My body has got mental control. I move when I’m uncomfortable, I jerk my arms and cast my legs back and forth, back and forth, almost wheeling in the air, madly. As mad as I am.

So, last night, I think I went mad. I dreamt.
I actually dreamt of a wilderness, a wild world where creatures and figures of men and of women, and of boys and girls with animals on leashes, of broken clocks lying in sand, their broken hands barely moving, back and forth through time as if time itself has stopped.
Stopped as the life in the cotton-lined box…
Normal. Normal is not something I think of, because I don’t think of life.
I could sit in a sanctum room and stare at the front, at fuchsia’s lying on a cotton-lined box, the recesses of my mind rushing and rushing past the border where sanity ends.
My nails tear at my hands, burrowing through my skin as the claws in my brain tear away the bare face of logic, picking and peeling away the surface to reveal the pulsing dark inside.
I can fly in my dreams. Cast off into the world like a superhuman thing.
In my world things are good. In my world no one cries. In my world the only tears fall from the eyes of rocks that hang above, cupping a spring below the sky where the birds fly and the men and the women and the boys and the girls trail animals on leashes and skip and play in their lives where they are free to roam and frolic and – *breathe*

Last night, I think I went mad.
Waking is a funny thing. Dreams fall like ice cast up from a swishing blade, like the ribbons of a ballet shoe as they drift to the everglade ground.
My eyes, my stupid eyes opened, the world cast itself upon me with its savage grace. It closed upon me in my madness and disgraceful insanity.
I doubt I make sense. I never do. I babble when I am nervous, I laugh when I talk. I could stand and give it my all when before I threw up, just cast my breakfast into a porcelain bowl as I shook.
It happens. The mind is closed, as the caps burst their tops.
Last night, I think I went mad, because I dreamt of that
cotton. Lined. Box.


Laura Reynolds
BA (Hons) English and Creative Writing
Laura is 20 years old and has had a strong interest in poetry and fiction since she learned to read (the crazier and more unbelievably farfetched, the better!) Her poems and fiction pieces are usually fantasy, mythology or based on the supernatural. She wants to teach English overseas and soak up a little inspiration.

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