rik

As a dreamer descends upon the night, billows of imagination alight on his brain like weary migrating swallows atop the bushes of San Juan Capistrano. Thoughts of the day and week meander through synapses to sort the trials that have permeated moments of waking toil. Swirling eddies of thoughts twist and coil about each other like so many bits of cottonwood blossom whirling in the current of Creek Utopia. No decision is made on the part of the dreamer. No conscious attempt to sway the dream; just a solitary raft with no oar or paddle, no rudder with which to steer. As night moves on and time twists its way through space, turning the arms of clocks as it goes, the dreamer undulates from nearly cognizant to deepest slumber; from hearing the juniper branch converse with the wind outside to rapid eye movement fit for science to study. As the mind climbs toward consciousness and slides toward dreamland the stories roll about upon each other, summersault over summersault until the stored events of life are mixed into an entropic, homogeneous blend of good and bad, happy and sad, excitement and mundane droll. The dream of a dreamer changes only once...When the tethers of sleep have been cut and the ascent toward wakefulness begins. It's then that the dream gains speed, a fast-forward projection on a canvas of eyelids, it speeds on and on until a sliver of horizontal light signals the end. The waking world once again reigns...but only for a time. The raft will float again...tonight.