Wednesday 4 August 2021

Drawing a Blanc

There are these dreams that might not be. To the extent to which they might, it's in their being bled between the books on the shelf where such cases are conjured.
On nights like last, I might languish at tortured length while failing to fall, waiting and wondering if sleep's to arrive for more than the one hour before I'll get back out of bed again. It's not so much in certainty that this is me in conscious deliberation, but in an underlying, unconsidered assumption.
Sometimes one recognises the glorious slip when it happens, and the recognition does not seem to disturb the flow. This is the blissful beauty of staring sleep in its face at that place where conscious creativity and dream coherence greet. I'm not sure last night featured such an undisturbed moment. It might have.

A common feature of these long hours of sleeplessness is the repetitive return to one particular thought that would seem to be the apparent feature for the evening. Naturally this does have a way of eventually bleeding onto the aforementioned bookshelf, or from it, and that's how a loop of a dream can seem like it's no different from lying awake all night.
Last night, for some reason, that thought was the bark of Dino the dinosaur, accompanied by the idea that my father'd found a certain humor in that bark enough to get him giddy. Now I think, and thought, this might be so, but was and 'm still not certainly sure. And some of this ruminating may've twisted throughout a dream.