Life, the stuff from which dreams are made
Reality embroiders its patterns into my dreams, leaving me convinced I'm merely improvising on an old, lived-through piano score. On reflection, waking, I see fading details from old conversations, artefacts from past memories, even memories from past dreams, whose claim to my reality is even more tenuous. Nighttime reveries are peopled, 'placed', 'objected' with such familiarity. "There's nothing in our dreams," I disclosed to him, brazenly, "that isn't already in our heads." More than ever, I'm slowly learning that my day's life becomes a search for dreamstuff and its tender sanctuary.