I have experienced the solitude of the writer, felt the hot arms of the unknown, usher me into the void, have been laid bare to the quiet, the ecstasy, the hollowness, the delirium. Like the dream sensation, not a supernatural revelation, but an experience that is subject to the laws of the human spirit, converting the slight sensations perceived in sleep into intense sensations. One night I dreamt that I was tall, that my limbs were long bambi legs, thin sticks steadying for the first time. They were so long that I had to fold myself twice over just to feel small again. I learned that trying to catch time is like trying to catch butterflies. It takes more than patience, rather a resistance to life itself, a succumbing to the tasks it demands. Instead I resort to knocking my knees together, banging my head against the wall – all the bodily functions that help me remember this is real, time is passing and I am in the thick of it,
rolled over sheets
words not my own
crawl back under my heart.
*With lines taken from Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams:
Freud, Sigmund. The Interpretation of Dreams. Toronto: York University, 1997. PDF file