The Interpretation of one’s dreams, though often fogged and murky to assess unaided, seems to morph into a gaudy, unrecognizable mire when one consults the speculative clairvoyance of a dream book. I do not believe, for example, that my dream of falling is an obvious link to my current level of control over my family life. I am vastly more interested in looking upon our own personal worlds as the master road-map to the beauty of our creative brains at rest. If someone could thumb through my imagination unbound by social convention, they could know me more deeply than any conscious lover. What stories, what secrets, what piece of the journey we are on can we point to as our compass rose; to divine meaning from the madness of our subconscious? What in my beautiful life makes my dreams wretched, complex, joyous or detached from all reality?
When I will my limbs into motion in the morning and trudge through the brushing of teeth, the pulling on of jeans, (one leg at a time as they say), I become a thing that breathes and eats, a ravenous vessel of flesh that wants and needs. While in human form, everything has a weight and a mass and an order. It seems perfectly unsettling then, that such a solid existence can give way to such a fleeting world of majesty, where logic is wholly distorted into an endless tunnel of impossibilities. Thus my waking life led in the physical realm, amongst the benches I can sit on and the wind that annoys my hair, is simply a panorama from which my sleeping mind gleans a muse and paints irreplaceable, invisible artwork on a canvas of grey matter floating about in my skull.