Sleeping. A fidgety, finicky sleep with a talkative brain for a bed-mate…thoughts that won’t shut up; rackety thoughts that try to masquerade as dreams, cheap knockoffs of the real thing that fall apart in the mental tumble-dry. A rough-ride night that became sleep, eventually, that became dreams that vanished upon waking. Waking with no memory of dreaming. Damn.

We are dreams. Writing is—all creative activity is. The living of dreams. The thing we are as much as the thing we do.

Dreams are the ideas we scrabble to hold onto when morning comes. We dream of dreaming them. We conjure them out of air. We chase them when the winds of waking snatch them away. We struggle to remember them, to make sense of them.

The vision, the sensations, the emotions, the color carry over into our days, They are, simultaneously, what we experience and what we aspire to. And when we try to communicate them, when we commit them to the page, the canvas, the barre, the stanza, we confine and limit them—we diminish the very thing that animates us.

In translating our grand thoughts through our dinky, finite, processor-selves, we make them as small as we are. Then we spend the rest of our days—our lives—trying to break the bonds of the medium to recapture some of the substance of what was lost in translation, to inflate the idea once again to the proportions of glorious infinity.

We are the dreamer and the dreamed thing. And the pitiful sadsack who tries to write it all down. And too often, we lose ourselves in translation.

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