Night terrors in Kells

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I wake. The air is thick with thought, horrible anxieties, no light, myself, my life right now. My age is slippery and here's me in my granny’s house in the 90s, so aware (only now?) of the colour scheme on the wall - in the olden days, long before me, or you, or my granny, or hers, colours weren’t just colours. Karl told me that once, talking about Gawain. I can smell bog and the ashes in the grate and I feel that the shade of my teenage self, a breath of him, moved past me somewhere. I want to talk to him, to shout out. Brother. There is something slightly beyond my grasp, to do with a shelf of books, beyond again, up beyond my reach, a stacked pyramid, an old prayer book and something about a crime. 

...we stepped out into a fine drizzle outside and pulled a trailer through the mud in a landscape of briars and hopping frogs...those little skating insects on stagnant pondwater too, boatmen (I saw them called that in a library book once?)...we caught them in jars...

A bed pulls at me like a soft magnet. (Kells?). Heavy body, sinking and stuck. No sun yet, curtains hanging stiff, a close dark sky, sinking further, then floating roots in a brown cloudy jar. Something slow and ornate crawls horribly around its base. A caddis fly larva. They make their own armour from bits of crap in the pond.

It is hard to run in bogs, the muscles tire. Below, beyond, (beyant?) the boom of the sea coming in. The bar. The boom. Loud and long, so far away, a vast rolling ghostly moan in the gloom.

[this is just an early morning automatic writing experiment. Normal service will resume shortly]