The World of Myth Magazine

I have surmised for a while now that insomnia doesn't allow my brain to file away the day's experiences neatly. Being so tired results in stress and anxiety, coupled with really disturbing dreams. I regularly wake up after only two hours of sleep, deeply disturbed and embedded in a world no one should ever have to experience.

Like most of us, for a nano-second, the dream is very real. Then it's gone. Whatever trauma I have lived through in my nightmare is forgotten. I sigh and start another long day.

This time was different. I grabbed a notebook and a pen and frantically scribbled down these words:

"In a tin, in a cubicle, badly torn, stitched, hot dirty beach, sand. "These two entities, I knew they were not human, left me with those enticing words. Meaning what exactly? I cobbled together a dialogue, with such glee. It felt as though this was not my story, it was coming straight from the aliens' mouths.

One. "Why am I in a tin?"

Two. "You are not in a tin, you are in a cubicle."

One. "I told you to take me to a track that leads to a hot dirty beach and you've put me in a tin."

Two. "I had to bring you here. You're a badly torn girl and You need to be stitched. Anyway, it's not good to get sand in your tin."

One. "Aha, so I am in a tin, I knew it."

Just like that, total brain-free fall! Never before, or since, have I recalled a dream so vividly. I tried to dismiss the dream as the nonsense it was. I tried, but I felt such pathos and longing there. I wanted that hot, dirty beach too.

I attempted to weave a story around these entities, but I had to concede that somehow, I could not add to what I'd already written. Purely for the sake of my sanity, I abandoned the endeavour after a few weeks.

Will they ever visit me again? I miss them, and I still wonder what size that tin was. Soup or oil?

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