22 November 2004 Monday

Not really a dream; a dream at all?

It often seems a shame to sleep, when I can dream just as well, awake.

The thoughts that I would take to bed with me always escape; my dreams are of things much different, yet I wake up to find them there again. Always there, always remembering me.

i have often forgotten lately, as if an early memory loss of sorts has found me: what i know, what i feel, who i am, what the world is, what it is to me, and who i am to him and them and him and her and them and him and me again. every now and again a moment finds me and i remember, and i know. are glimpses enough to see all the way through, or at least to make it to the same end? and of all the beautiful scenes and paths and lives, all of which may or may not be mine, in time, am i sure of these? am i content to pull the weight my way and know each choice was mine and made? to swim in choice or stand in will; which is more honest? which is real? if i am convincing enough, why should it matter if i feel something undefined, that could stay unrecognized? are the truest things ever, really?