Jun 5, 2003
The book I was reading just before I went to sleep invaded my dreams somehow. Awake now, I'm charged with unrest and vacant memory and a sense of inexplicable nostalgia brought on by memories I don't actually have. What a wonder. You can fail in your dreams without ever even trying. And you can wake with the sting of failure still on you even when you can't remember anything else.
Those old familiar goosebumps are on me again. A chill that recalls times in recent years when I wrote in the wee hours because of vicious illness or idea-charged fatigue. I used to read that chill as a warning. Caution: nerve endings exposed, synapses firing. You're going to open your arms wide in welcome and be completely caught off your guard when something falls from the sky and crushes you, embrace and all.
I take the tingling sensation with me back to bed now, where I will scold myself for memory and feeling and trying to make sense of it all. Sometimes all this thinking is just a big fat indulgence.
posted by Mary Forrest at 4:39 AM | Back to Monoblog