I told Don this week that I've concluded that I really don't like to dream. They are unsettling in the least. And here I am up at 5:30 writing because of them. As flightly as I am, one would think that is odd for me to say. But, I don't like the feeling that they are unsolved, I don't like the questions unanswered they seem to ask.
I do believe there is some residue that we take of them throughout the day, whether good or bad. I seek the best of people, art and music, and books to "dream" during consciousness, so — the unstable and shifty patches of sleep at night are bothersome when compared to them.
However, saying that, I do enjoy a good flight and that has been a recurring dream since childhood. I can lift my arms and glide un-ossified through time and space. Weightless it seems, so much so that the landings are almost unattainable and I usually wake myself flying.
After Mickie died I would try to dream, I would hope to spend time in any space with her. Those too are usually brief, and don't leave me with the joy I thought they would. I can do little but tolerate them now.
I don't want dreams to go away either. I'm not foolish enough to think that they aren't part of the wirings of God and — I do want to keep all communication lines open.
Zoe just woke from her twitching's and immediately wanted to go outside. Perhaps to search for the elusive rabbit of those dreams.
