Vagabonds through life, we roam unknown habitat like wild critters testing their range, yet under our expectation that feet and footing will not collapse.
Nothing is guaranteed, and footing can never be counted on, and nobody can read our minds about what we want from them. Often wrong, but finding great comfort in that feeling, that false sense of bravado. Planned and focused, we think we want to go somewhere.
To do that.
Sure, let’s go.
Snoozing, restless, groggy state, torn between ache to recreate that dream moment that shocked us awake, or imagine the story’s next chapter. Not knowing where I’ve been or where I’m going, and fearing I can’t find that page again.
Like waking amidst a fantastic-unreality, skimming some randomly chosen page which happens to be the cusp of that novel’s denouement.
I love waking mid-dream. Any dream, fantasy or nightmare, if it’s my dream.
I dream of waking up in the middle of love – but on reflection on past experiences, that’s a mid-point between paradise and calamity. Always lovely in the beginning, and somewhere in the middle, waking up dazed and confused.
I’m focused on several things, from short-term minor-importance things and a couple of long term massively-important things. I’m always, it seems, in early stages – wishing I could wake up in the middle of them having experienced an immeasurable galactic joyride and then push or drag my dream across the finish line.
Nobody wants to wake up in the middle of someone else’s dream because that won’t auger well for anyone.
By then, I’m wide awake; 3 AM – time to pee, time to write …