Wednesday, 26 October 2011

Dream, dream, dream

"They say that dreams are only real as long as they last. Couldn't you say the same thing about life?" - Waking Life

(a) Every night as I sleep, I dream. Occasionally on waking I can remember some detail. By then, though, it's usually just an outline of itself - as if seen through a thick fog - or a selection of snippets. Aside from that, the feeling is the strongest thing. And even that fades fast unless I capture it in the moment and note it down.

(b) Waking-life can also come on as if it were a dream at times. As a shimmering, half-surreality. Slightly unhinged. Just adrift from the usual moorings. And I'll sometimes catch these moments as they happen, too, and turn them into words.

Here is one.

Dream 1
Green-grey salt bush and red chalk sand.

Distant frazz of moisture
breaks purple grey curtain sky.

While beetle-bullet hugs dark stripmat
drawing horizon over horizon.

While breeze trips dust over dust
And runs soft fingers
through all trees
all branches
and all leaves
all at once.

Aside from any literal or direct, real-world  implications, whether the event itself was (a) real or (b) imagined - or both - is irrelevant. It's a trace of thought and feeling, the shape of a vapour trail etched in the sand, a tremor trapped before fading.

Image credit: elcafedeloslibres

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