Trauma

Did I lock that door? I think to myself as I rub my feet together like a cricket or two sticks trying to start a fire. Lying in bed I smile at the screen that keeps me safe from real life. As I disassociate, a post flashes across the screen, reminding me of something or someone from one of my past lives. What it is? Or who is it? I don’t remember. But it makes me start to think about my ex. Did I lock that door? That was such a sore subject, like a splinter festering under my skin. I wish I could erase that from my memory. Drifting, I place the phone face down on my pillow just enough to see a whisper of light. My dreams come in ebbs and flows, resurrecting thoughts from my subconscious. I dream of old friends, old times, and places. My first apartment. When I left for the last time, I thought to myself, did I close that door? All my belongings minimized to two bags; emphasized to new beginnings and the knowledge that nothing lasts forever. Then, the sound of an alarm startles me back to life.