After nap is a timeless space. Where you sleep 22 and wake up 12. In a few invisible hours. A precious time travelness, peopleless and thingless which is then populated with memories and feelings too large for feeling. As long as you lie in twilit darkenss, unlived moments and ones as if from dreams will fly by, slowly like migratory birds across a painted sky of remembering and non remembering. Regrets will caw, and doubly forgotten instances will scratch little claw marks in the bark of ancient tree branches dotted across the landscape of a terrible, quiet, grey mind.
As if aloneness bears heavy and natural and wanted, yet not. Like something would come and wipe the slate clean, yet under and against the window with the blue raincloud light, slivers of wet words beneath chalkdust will chide into longknown, silent, uncharted territories simmering with promise.
It starts to fade like a bad but wise dream, but now it's in words and it'll come back, looking for a haunting, ten years into the now furiously busy, moving, black and white static of things and images, not finding a crack to escape from. One day it will step across the threshold of an old house when the mind is fertile and the rain falls in sheets of mist and nostalgia, yet in nothing at all.
The garden behind it will be abuzz with tiny winged insects burrowing their bodies out of wet earth, silvery blurs of life, in a hurricane of an excited flurry pattering of rising up into the sky melding into life, out of hard grassy wombs of parched earth, now muddy and rich and cold.
Traffic noise will seep from grids of iron windows, expensive curtains, children will still shout unknown at the fact that the shout will carry to their distant futures, changing characters, as if postincarnation, postnap, post as if moments have passed in a blur of scared time running away from things that didn't happen and the scratchy slivery memory of things that did, but only jump into wrong numbers on hopscotch tables and the feet land too perfectly to be wonderingly laughed at for long.
And when the hands land on land, slowly peeling itself away from afternoon sun, emanating a heat into little palms, it almost feels as if something dirty, some bodily sensate feelings have latched on to soft skin, now chalk and dust and sunshine from hours ago, as if a nap has put decade old train rides across forests with lone little huts in the middle of nowhere, now occupied by nobody's words, staring into railway tracks where a child just crossed, staring into thatched roof, wondering about existence, its and its. Understanding neither.