A sickening feeling wakes me up in the middle of the night. Why is it that I still can’t shake those violence-ridden thoughts that stir my mind?

This time, spontaneous human combustion and more: burning bodies, flailing arms, disembodied limbs, scattered around the road. I may be driving or perhaps I’m standing in a bus (even in dreams, I rarely sit). I attempt to swerve so as to avoid the bodily mess, but I feel blocked. I sense that one wrong move will cause me to fall over the side of the road, so I try to keep calm and steady.

Looking to one side, I imagine I’ve seen a forest; however, I’m convinced there’s a deep ditch between myself and the trees. The other side of the road is cluttered with more bodies, some of them buckling onto the hood of my car as they tumble from the sky.

My insides brimming with nausea, I tiptoe to the bathroom, certain that I’ll puke. Once the waves of despair pass, I sit and breathe in rhythm with the stillness of the room. I am grateful to hear the sound of distant songbirds awakening just before the dawn. I splash water on my face and head back to bed.

I don’t know how long I lie there battling those lingering ghosts.

Counting sheep won’t do – but maybe, just maybe, flora. So, I methodically plant daisies and gerberas, roses and irises, throughout the deepest recesses of my brain. And, as a bouquet grows in my mind, the vision and scent of those flowers slowly erases what’s come before.

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