Unseen and not seeing

It's always going to be there—the cricket under the floorboard that you only hear at one thirty in the morning when you're afraid to close your eyes for too long because you don't want to dream about a place you're not sure you'll ever see. It's chirping in intervals. It flits in and out. Normality goes on breaks that seem more like vacations. It's the rock at the bottom of a lake that rises to the surface when everyone's guard is down.