I love dreams, don't you? The really vivid ones that make you stop and think .. the ones you pull out from beneath a somnambulant duvet and drag kicking and screaming into the daylight.
When I was younger I kept a dream diary. I went to sleep with a pad of paper and pencil by the side of the bed, and by the time the alarm clock greeted in the morning there would invariably be a page or two of scattered random jottings. One half of the pleasure was working out exactly what had been captured during the night, the other was working out what it really meant.
A weird mixture of metaphor, simile and aphorism, all rendered in beautiful psychedelic colouring. And then the times when I fly, such rapture, rising effortlessly above the crowd and just floating there. How I love these times.
Sometimes it turns dark. A few nights ago scudding black clouds and the removal of artefact and humanity piece by piece presage my death. And yet, even in the passing there is hope. What lies behind the black tumult?
One day I shall discover, and as you read these hastily typed lines may I pose a question. Are you the dream ... or am I?
best regards,
electrofried (mr)
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