M.*
In statia cea de toate zilele
Nobody remembers the start of a dream. They recall the middle, maybe; and the end, often. But nobody ever recollects crossing the soft border between dream and not-dream.
It must look something like this. Bright colors, muted colors…all mixed together. Solid shapes, fluid shapes…all shifting back and forth. Straight lines, curving lines…all leading into and away from each other. Familiar and strange at the same time. Comforting and discomfiting. Beautiful. Always, always beautiful.
You’ll dream again tonight. You’ll close your eyes, your breathing will grow soft and regular, your body will relax and your mind will pass through that permeable membrane that separates dream from not-dream. And it will be as effortless and as astonishing as riding a yellow bicycle in the rain.
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