invocation - autofiction *

May 2023.

You wake up in the middle of the night – my long-time friend, my other half. You wake in the middle of the night because something has broken the rhythm of your sleep: a distant howl, maybe, a call for some closeness that you too can feel, a sudden thirst. Somebody walks by in the corridor and their approach takes you out of the dream, takes you by surprise when you’re still unable to defend yourself. Now you’re afraid that something is coming and that you cannot stop it and this fear plunges you underwater, where you cannot breathe. But the steps continue beyond your door, and you’re safe again. You could try and sleep some more– you feel the temptation of being lulled back into that sweet nothingness where you don’t have to question your desires and where the memory and fantasies of the boy you once were blend together. But something of the dream’s horniness has stayed with you, and it keeps you awake – a vibration in your body, a distinct arousal; a desire to move the sheets. You wish to come back to that state of youthful bliss, but it’s too late, your mind is slowly finding its way back to you. It now catches up on what your body already knew: that warmth close to you. Something of the dream’s infinite possibilities has stuck with you and you start remembering your dream, green glass shards of a story that first disgusts, then excites you. Memories of the evening that was and the fantasies you have kept inside of you so long, no one to confide them to.

over at translucent green plastic press. Edited by Jonah Lubin and Mona Thierse.