Forgotten Dreams

What happens to forgotten dreams?

When the lights go out, dreams enter our minds and become part of the night's reality. But where do they go when the sun returns and our eyelids flicker open? 

Quietly, these memories slip back into the oblivion of the night that has now ceased to exist. 

There is always an urge every morning as one sits up, unfolding comforting blankets, to recapture the images that disappeared. Like fireflies in a moonlit meadow, these pictures flit away enticingly, spur curiosity, and go farther and farther out of reach until their glows merge into the darkness. The mind goes blank and airy as the final candle of recognition goes out, leaving only a lingering scent of calming smoke which too will be carried away in the breeze. 

Gold

Gold. 

An eye opens to iridescent windows, whispering breezes onto closed eyelids

Combs brush through the earth, picking up pace and trickling into basins of the night

A soft exhale floats away as subconscious memories part from the ideal

Silence.

A hum appears to soften the return of reality, wooing the sight into a clock

Such a plentiful display of ephemeral seconds, grinning in warm pity

As of the moment, the day is golden

Morning

The songs of birds awaken the sleeping giant. On an ancient blue painting, light filters through the cracks of the endless canvas that continues to shine in its age. The companion of night, a wall of silence, crumbles away again. It is always quiet in the darkness, except for subtle sounds so minute to the wall that they are ignored. Trees stretch their limbs along the ground as well as into the air, disappearing into the coolness. Soon, all will awake and the seconds will move towards another night. 

A Sleeping City

It is a lie to say that a city never sleeps. Even "the city that never sleeps" has its rest. There may be people who are awake, cars that still move, or lights that continue to flicker but, nonetheless, the city is asleep. It is unknown as to when exactly this time begins but a sense of knowing settles onto those who are aware. The gates of stores are pulled down. The sky may be dark or growing paler in the early morning hours. The street lights are lit down the nearly empty streets. 

It is lonely. For those who are awake-the exceptions, the vivid dreams in a peaceful night-all feels empty around them. Walking through the city's calmness, there is a sense of melancholy. Time seems to have stopped yet it remains moving for the conscious. The hands on the clock do not stop spinning.

It is neither vitalizing nor tiring to traverse the dreams of the city. It breathes in long sighs. The wind picks up, then returns to a breeze. The eyes of the city are closed gently as the clouds lightly layer the sky. There is no intensity in the city. One is simply left alone. 

Snow

Could it be that snow is the sorrow of the sky?

Cold, stinging tears turned to ice in the fury of the winds. So plentiful are these tears that they drift down to meet the earth. The sky in its silent weeping hides its face from the ever joyous sun with its soft blankets of grey.  The mysterious wails heard in the wind are those of the sky, dismissed by listeners as their imagination in the winter cold. 

The sky's sorrow is misunderstood. As her tears continue to fall, laughter is heard from the people below. They see not misery, but fun and amusement. 
It is beauty to them. 

And when the tears stop from exhaustion, when the snow falls no more, there is a stillness. Time turns slowly although the clock moves the same. Some may feel this sensation while others treat it as a result from their duties.  It is the sky's way of thinking, the sky's reflection. 

Then there is either more sorrow or she moves on. The storm either continues or the sky becomes blue, clear, and bright. The people are oblivious when the sky returns to happiness. 

"The weather is beautiful today."

A Rainy Day

I opened my eyes. The soft drumming of the rain on my windowsill calmed me. Exhaling, I  looked out the window. Below my second floor apartment I could see the damp streets with rippling puddles. It was nearly dark and the dim street lights cast blurry pillars of pale yellow into the chilled air. The city felt empty as the last umbrellas disappeared into doorways. 

It had been a while since I had felt this way. It had been a while since that day I stood in the rain, waiting for someone I knew wouldn't come. Now I was alone in the silence of my room. No one bothered me and no one would ever bother me again. I closed my eyes and continued listening to the faint drumming of the rain. 

Dreaming

The fragrance of a cloudy day
Is different from the smell of rain.
The chilling wind and sunny warmth
Carries me away.
Away you say? How far is away?
As far as the dreams in our sleep?
As far as the dreams in our wake?
I am dreaming, even now.
What is distance when it cannot be measured?
Like the length of yearning
Or the depth of time.
What is joy when it cannot be captured?
A forgotten memory
A passing day. 
I am dreaming, even now.