the moths

dreams

Two nights ago, I dreamt twice in a night. I first woke up at 1 AM, convinced I had just been outside, watching one of the low-flying planes careen into the street behind my primary school. Its impact sent an explosion, almost nuclear, knocking me off my feet. The second dream was an unsavoury and long ordeal where I had decided to cheat on my boyfriend with a friend of mine, only to instantly hate myself in the dream world. I woke up hating myself in the real world for thirty minutes before realising it wasn’t real.

Last night, I dreamt there was an uninterrupted ring of moths lining the skirting of my bedroom. Big batty brown moths, long papery white moths, dark green moths with large orange eyes on slender wings. I was restless because moths in my room meant that if I lost consciousness, certainly some would fly down and lay eggs in my cavities. I stood to fitfully disturb them with an outstretched broom. But they were fleshy and unafraid, clinging to the brick.