The other night, I had a dream. It lasted as long as any other. When it was over, I found myself where I have been, looking plainly at where I had been.
It was off-putting at first, floating around the room, listening to the ceiling's heartbeat. Below me stirred such great confusion, in the form of two ornate rugs. They leaned against each other and grappled like tired wrestlers.
I coughed. Everything around me vanished - everything. A warmth flooded the back of my skull. Everything found its way in. I coughed again and it all came out through me - everything. It hung itself appropriately back where it had been. Keenly, with an inherent knowing, I viewed my consciousness. In a private, unshared moment, the world made more sense. Or, at a minimum, it didn't make any less sense. In frequent gasps - a fish out of water - I took in what I could.
Coming back to where I had been, nothing really changed. There was a loss of sharpness, though. Call it a necessary glaze, or a mandatory perspective. Even now I feel it fitted snug against my face. This doesn't bother me. Dreams have their way of sneaking in, to see how things are. I dream now of meeting them.
