There are these two mischievous buggers I happen to know. They go by the names of Could’ve and Should’ve. These two have a nasty habit of showing up after I’ve managed to get into a good sleep zone. You know that moment when you’re eyes are not heavy anymore and you’re breathing has settled down to a decent rhythm. Yes. That’s when the two monsters crawl up right on my chest and do their dance of regret and wishful thinking. There is no escaping their constant murmur; a murmur that reaches deep into the recesses of memory and pulls out all that which rests peacefully, awaiting its silent passing away. It tugs at the sleeping souls, digs their graves, fills its fingernails with earth.
The murmur slowly rises, becomes a roar. And I’m lost in its ear splitting cacaphony. Could’ve and Should’ve enjoy this dance of the rebirth of the dead. They sit and watch the puppet show, a show where I am the puppet, the string, the stage and the audience.