Dreams.
They slip from my fingers like like honey & soap.
Trickle down the pipes of my throat.
Run down the crevices of my arm (like peach juice after a sweet snack).
They dissolve like flecks of salt in water.
Dissipate like fog from steaming potholes,
just as quickly as they formed in my brain.
All they leave are ghosts, the ghosts of my dreams.
Remnants, fragments.
Pieces.
I have nothing to hold onto but images, shapes. Colors & sounds.
As I try to write - to remember - I can't. I feel the images evade my consciousness, morphing into vague ideas, slowly seeping through the cracks.
They are going home. Home to the drawers of the superego.
Or is it the id?
Who knows.
I am stopped mid sentence ; I forget how to write. My train of thought stops to a screeching halt.
The tracks sizzle.
I pause, look up. To where?
I do not know.
Only one thing is certain. I have lost my dream.
I see it fading away.
Away.
Away.
Dreams.
***
Until one day, my hand keeps writing. The ink continues to flow, curves forming on the blank page.
Stains.
I remember it, the dream. The scenes are clearer, the characters more prominent.
Still, there is something missing.
A link, a storyline perhaps. The connecting tissue that would make the images appearing in my head make sense.
Even with this, though, I know I would still be lost.
Haze.
Dreams do not exist to make sense - at least not in the real world.
They are inherently incomprehensible.
But this reasoning is not satisfying. I cannot just accept this and move on.
There must be something. Something to clear the murky water, chase away the clouds of confusion.
Something to smooth out the rough desert floor of my conscious mind.
What is, then, this missing element?
…
Ah. Yes.
Sleep.