I’m to the point now where I’m frightened of my dreams. I am not, I must say, particularly frightened of what happens during my dreams; I’m frightened of waking up to discover that my dreams are not real, that reality is something very different, that the life I remember in my dreams now seems as if it happened to someone else a long, long time ago. I no longer wish to say, “Speak to me, dreams, speak to me of what I cannot see or hear during the day.” I do not seek (or find) inspiration in my dreams; I wake up now nearly every day in a cold, cold sweat.
It’s nothing new I suppose. I’ve always seemed to dream of the past, of love and life long lost. And it all seems so real, so very real, so much so that it comes as a shock when I awake to find that what I dream of no longer exists. The shock is so vivid, sometimes, that my heart seems to already be racing when I realize that I am no longer alseep.
As Rilke wrote:
And if the earthly no longer knows your name, whisper to the silent earth: I’m flowing. To the flashing water say: I am.
