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I still clearly remember a nightmare
I had at the age of seven.

A dusty basement surrounded with gray walls.
A very old wooden chair; making a creaking sound,
Stood alone in the middle of a barren room.

There was a little bar at a ceiling,
Showing a handful of light,
Strangely lighting the raggedy old chair
Like a spot light.

I was at the corner of the dark room, crouching.
Watching the whole scene without motion.

A gust of dry wind gave me goose bumps.
I felt loneliness, sadness
In a queerly jailed like space.

I was… … crying.


The dream was not scary, but my mother told me I was shouting…
I stated the dream as a nightmare for tears. But it still makes me wonder…
Why did I cry?