sad pale whispering

when i close my eyes i see sad pale whispering ghost children with eyes like stars and mouths like gaping black holes. i see the stuff of horror novels; misformed children with no eyes who trail their arms by the sides and eat and eat and eat and seek revenge, and zombies with bulging mouths and cheeks and sad pale sad pale sad pale ghost children. they haunt me when i sleep, when i close my eyes; if i am whole, why are they not?

they remain figments of my imagination, because if i write it all down (and i do want to write it all down, i want write horror stories that make people recoil in terror) i am filled with the fear that i have given it substance. i have given my stories words and my characters voices. when i write it doesn't feel like i am making these words, like i am the creator; it feels like my characters are grabbing ahold of me and shaking me until i snap out of my reverie and realize i've written reams and reams and reams. and that is why when i look back at my pages of black scrawl i am always surprised.

i think, 'did i write this?' only i must have written it because it's all in my handwriting (see, the i's are dotted with little circles and the semi-colons and colons are all outlined, like word-art. the same for the question marks and the exclamation) so sometimes i feel like there are hundreds of people in my head.

and then i try and get out everything i'm feeling and my hands can't keep up with my brain and what i write is garble.

but if i do write horror stories, if i give a substance and a life to the misshapen children and the ravenous zombies and the sad pale little ghost girls and the creatures that go bump in the night (of my head) whose to say the same won't happen? who's to say that they won't take over me? and if they take over me, will they let me go?

so i remain unable to sleep without the buzzing of the television, or my computer saying things to me. the night frightens me, even though the night is really the only place i feel proper. when i close my eyes the things dance on my eyelids and i just burrow down into my bed and try and find wonderland; i look for the white rabbit amongst my stuffed animals, and hope that i do not have nightmares.