Sometimes, late at night, I'll lie in my bed and listen to the quiet. And I'll wonder about chaos, God, and my schedule for tomorrow. I'll glance over at my clock, knowing that I should be asleep because I have to be up by five thirty. But I don't go to sleep, and at those times I never have.

It is at these quite times when I am free to reflect upon memories I usually pretend to forget. About how sometimes I catch a glimpse of a life I've never led, memories that are not my own. About make-believe things I've thought before, and about the bogie monsters we all carry.

There used to be a secret door on my wall. I would lie on my side in bed, and stare at the doorknob, watching for signs that something was trying to get though. Nothing ever did though, and after a time I decided that I would try to go though it. I tried again, and again for several days after, until I couldn't stand looking at the door that wouldn't open. So I've had it covered for years, trying to pretend that it doesn't exist, that there was never a door in the world that I couldn't open. Time passed, and with it humiliation, a new understanding. After all, isn't that how all secret doors are?

But I am not crazy. I know the words you whisper to each other, I understand what you're really saying when you tell me that I'd make a good writer. "You're crazy if you really believe the things you think." I'm sorry, I can't help that I think the way I do.

I don't really believe in make-believe doors, or monsters under my bed. I don't actually believe that the mirrors will swallow me whole in the middle of the night, or that dreams are actually made when sprites whisper stories into your ear.

So of course, it would only make sense if I didn't believe that there are multiple universes, or that I'm not run by money. I'd simply have to be put into a straightjacket if I really, truly questioned churches of God- because as we all know, if you question the church and their teachings, you question God and will therefore be condemned to eternal damnation.

It would be so much easier if I could just sleep.

None of that matters as I lie in bed, my eyes somewhere between wide-awake and drooping, my mind running too fast for such unsafe hours of the night. And as I close my eyes, trying to block out one more thought, I pretend that the world outside my dorm room doesn't exist; that if I were to open the door tomorrow, all I would see is an endless chasm of darkness, and the soft decent of the dazzling snow.

But I am not crazy.

I'm sure we all know that I wrote this short story about Luna. Next up, I'm hoping to have one of the Marauders. If you see anything that doesn't flow right or make sense, please tell me so I can edit it. Thank you! Usual disclaimer applies.