Last night I dreamed a book. I read it. I wrote. I controlled it, I lost it. Waking up, the thoughts and ribbons of ideas were still with me--the making of a whole new book complete and ready. Now the ribbons and streams have drained from my mind, and only brief glimpses--snatches of it--are still with me. The most frustrating idea of hopelessness: a dream unrecognizable anymore, lost in the depths of my memories and triggered by nothing. No hopes of finding that which should never have been lost. And I’m lost, almost catching more, only to have it scatter as my mind pounces upon the remnant…there, but not there. A dream shred by vain attempts at reconciliation. Hidden amid the quarrels and vanities of my imagination it sits. Never to stand and declare its rightful position. Last night I dreamed a book and lost a dream.
*Another CWLA version of Unravel for an attempt at prose that I feel too lazy to actually compose right now. Sigh.
--MovingGirl
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