Dreams.

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.

Love

Spread it like butter on toast.

Let it melt from your hands and ooze into the cracks of your

voice.

Let it stick to the things you touch, like honey clinging to honeycomb.

Let it flutter like a butterfly in a turquoise sky, emanating with each flapping of its wings.

Let it hover like the fog on a humid and rainy day ; heavy, hazy, blurry.

Let it float like the fluffy cotton clouds, idly passing by.

Let it rise and fall like the button of your belly.

Breath by breath.

Let it warm your sore throat, like hot tea traveling through your veins.

Healing.

Like the fire blazing in your chimney, golden oranges and yellows sporadically sprouting through,

With each

crackle

                             the fire

                                           Grows,

                                                          and the heat

                                                                                      Spreads.

Love.

It should be simple.

(But it isn’t.)

At once, let it permeate in everything you do.

Like the vibrant pink hues of the rising sun seep through the early day.

Like the gentle breeze of spring air lightly caresses your hairs.

Like the ebb and flow of the ocean’s waves, at once advancing and receding upon the dampened sand.

It is everywhere.

Ethereal.

Love.