Morpheus Drive By

I had a dream about a girl I dated briefly years ago. Actually, what I dreamt about was coming across a book she'd written, a memoir of sorts detailing a failed lover affair with an unnamed man. As I read through the book, I realized it was me she was writing about, and while she was definitely pushing the boundaries of creative non-fiction with the setting and descriptions and other facts, the encounters listed were clearly our own short-lived romantic interactions.

The effect was a feeling unlike any I've ever actually experienced. To discover, so unexpectedly, that I had touched someone far more deeply than she had ever revealed. But then to realize that in our failure, I had somehow given this person a story of such significance that it took on its own life, became a source of pure creation and artistic expression. One she shared with the world.

Some dreams pretty much vaporize upon waking. Others linger, like a smell clinging to skin or a song playing through your mind throughout the day. This particular dream was of the latter type. Haunting.

This is what happens when I write before bed time. My unconscious gets all allegorical and poetic. A weird little foot-note for a mind fuck of an extended weekend.

The sky is bleeding heat. The air seems wounded, bruised. I'm not looking forward to returning to work tomorrow.