Dreams and Wakings
This morning, another dream of Steve. They just keep coming.
In this one, separated by a veil of unreality, we type messages to one another on a floating screen, and he shows me all the art he might have made, one day, had he lived to do so.
I walk up behind him, shirtless, in a doorway, touch his bare back and am shocked that he is real.
I type on the screen, how sorry I am about the past.
He types back:
Stop it. You are here now, be in the moment. It is the only thing that is real.
What a weird world, when the best wisdom I can get is from the dead, in dreams.
In this one, separated by a veil of unreality, we type messages to one another on a floating screen, and he shows me all the art he might have made, one day, had he lived to do so.
I walk up behind him, shirtless, in a doorway, touch his bare back and am shocked that he is real.
I type on the screen, how sorry I am about the past.
He types back:
Stop it. You are here now, be in the moment. It is the only thing that is real.
What a weird world, when the best wisdom I can get is from the dead, in dreams.