In my dreams I know I am dreaming, I know that I am really safe, in my bed, warm and content. The adventures I have whilst my unseeing eyes rove are a second life, a life where I am invincible even in death. I almost never have nightmares. I love the dark and dangerous landscapes that my sleeping mind creates, I love the creatures that inhabit it. They are there for my pleasure, my fun, my escape.
But in the last few months I haven't been dreaming at all. Or at least I haven't remembered those that I have had - and I always remember. I have missed those moonlit escapades, my world is too homogenous without them.
Then, like a lover returned, I started dreaming again last week. But these dreams are full of sinking boats. And the boats are sinking because of me. Because I didn't take care. In these dreams I don't know that I am dreaming, I can't control the adventure, although I don't wake as from a nightmare; screaming, sweating and thankful for the solid walls of my apartment. I just feel profound regret. Regret that I couldn't stop the boat from sinking.
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