The Escape of Dreamscapes

Sometimes I wake up and just lay in bed, looking back over the dream I had. I become weary of being awake, willing myself back to that ethereal realm of possibility, but find my body too saturated by sleep to remain idle. So I wake up, shuffle around my morning rites of shower and dressing, locked in my head the whole time, trying to relive moments that have all but faded into the cloudy nether of my mind. I talked about walking the corridors of my mind before, and I emphasize it again. I’ve beaten a well-worn path into the thick, velvety rugs, the footprints like a map of my thoughts. However, it always turns out that I lose the key to my dream door in my waking hours, and seek it bitterly to no avail. The best I can do is peer through the room’s window, simply reflecting on the hazy images during the daytime.

But when I sleep, when I fall beneath that murky veil, things take on a sunnier atmosphere. Between the newly fulfilled love, the highly improbable situations, and the downright impossible gifts, dreams seem to be the body’s way of telling us that at the end of even the shittiest day, there is yet something to look forward to. Atreides.

Forgive me, Mungo is absent this week, and the post is only half of what it rightfully should be.