I awake from a night of dreams to a morning of frosty breath, bright sun on snow, and frozen water pipes. The memories of my sleep are frozen as well. Traces of the dreams linger, enough to tempt me to remember and to let me know that I have dreamed, but the pictures of the night fade with every moment that I move through the cold rooms of my house.
I hover over the coals of the night’s fire, breathing them into flames. Warmth seeps into my head and I hope it will thaw the pipes of my mind, but the dreams stay frozen in the cold vessels of my brain. I must let them go, leave them in the night, lest the struggle to remember bursts the pipes and I find myself awash in the warm blood of nighttime wanderings.
It is strange, this decision to let parts of myself remain unknown. Ibid on the Id. Whether they see the light of this winter’s day, the dreams remain. I shiver in awe at the mysteries of the human soul and the complexities of the sacred movings of the mind.
Outside, I blink in the glare of the morning sun on the snow. The icy crust crunches loudly beneath my feet. Inside my head, nerve firings spark the pipes to flow again.
February 6, 1995