An account

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?