I'm never sure if it's a dream or a ghost that slips away from in the mornings. Sometimes they linger for a few hours, laughing, leaning on you drunkenly as you wander through the shapeless landscape of dreams back to your home. Then it's falling into bed, and she kisses you sloppily and then as you wrap your arms around her waist the doorbell rings and jars you awake and you stumble out of bed and let the repairman in, and then you make a cup of tea and sit down to read a book, when suddenly you realize she's gone and she was never there, or there's no trace of her anywhere, and you never went out and you weren't drinking and she's in California, anyway, and you're miles away and you haven't seen or spoken to her in months and those times have past.
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True, I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy, which is as thin of substance as the air.
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Sometimes you wake up every morning for a month with your heart pounding and this sense of dread, this sense that there's something wrong with your brain, but by the time you calm yourself down and get out of bed you can't quite remember what the dream was about. And that starts to bother you, too, because you have this conviction that it's been the same dream every time.
So you start writing it down, first thing, no matter how terrified or disoriented you are, and you find out you're wrong. It's been a different dream each time. So you delve deeper, because maybe there's a common thread. It doesn't matter, you tell yourself, that dreamers often lie, so long as there's still some truth to be found.
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Dreamers Often Lie by R.S. Mason is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 United States License.
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