I had one of those nights filled with dark unpleasant dreams. I’d wake up, go back to sleep, and have another round in worlds I was very happy to have dissolve away as consciousness emerged. When I woke for the final time, I glanced at the clock, saw it was bonafide morning, and said to myself, that’s enough of that.
Still, it’s strange how that feeling can stay with you, a sense of foreboding, an air of gloom entirely concocted by your brain and your brain alone. More often than not, lately, I’ve gotten to morning with that vague feeling I’ve been somewhere else doing many things, none of which I can remember within a few seconds of waking up.
I would have taken the not remembering, frankly.
But as the dreams become more and more remote, they grow fuzzy and undefined. And maybe the essence of them could prove useful for writing, in terms of mood if not their nonsensical content.
And here’s to hoping for more pleasant dreams ahead.
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