silkidelic

In the day, I am calm, never reaching any zenith of emotion. The deep feelings roll like fat-drippings into my subconscious and shimmer there, an iridescent pool that I visit when I sleep.

Tuesday night, I had dreams in which I was screaming in rage at the top of my lungs. Upon waking, I could feel the thrumming of my vocal cords, the breath like fire within my chest. 

Thursday night, I dreamed that I took a bat to someone who had hurt me, who had laughed about it, and this time I was stronger than them. Wait, it wasn’t a bat – it was the heavy wooden dowel I keep in my bedroom closet, but gilt in silver. The sound rolled on like thunder over the fearful heads of giants. 

When I wake, I am placid. I don’t feel any need to lash out in real life. My new power is this: I am able to sip from the lake of anger without fear. Always have I have slaked my thirst for vengeance with the purity of water, drowning it so that even in dreams, I have been mute, small in the face of unknown assailants. Only my body could cry out, in its elaborate dialect of pain. 

I next dream on the day named for the goddess Frigg. I find the lakeshore, the waters black and shimmering. Scooping the iridescence with my hand, I drink. 

When I wake, I know how to channel. My body feels light, my mind clear, and the oil of my dreams fuels me.