Tongue-tied twice by strange dreams, the details of which I scarcely remember, the second ending with my awkward, labored flight about twenty feet above a sidewalk past snowy steps leading to the door of a three-story brick building while in search of the other entrance — the place was familiar: it contained halls within halls within halls — I knew that much, but nothing more, the structure yet to make its purpose known. It was night; there was a small group of people following below; they were alarmed to see me aloft, and for an instant I wished I had remained on the ground. Human flight — if that is what I really am, and if that was what I was really engaged in — is seldom condoned, and even more rarely understood. Of course I am crazy — enough to wake myself — if I exist — and then go on to tell about it.
September 2, 2021
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Categories: Dreams, New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Awareness, Diaries, Dreams, Flight, Identity, Insanity, Journals, Meaning, Night, Snow, Understanding