The dreams.
Always, the dreams.
Dreams never remembered save for impressions of hurry, of movement, a sense of familiar place, all gone in the instant of waking.
Dreaming became waking life.
Beginning in the night as soon as she closed her eyes, seeping like ink spilled on a blotter into the morning, into the day.
Things worth remembering– a wounded bird giving her messages, the bird now changed into an ancient man, her father as he might have been had he lived into old age.
Always the dreams, but never the memory.
Waking and dreaming, endlessly circling.
Almost seen, never seen.
It might be an obvious/stupid comment but this really does have a dreamlike quality to it.
Thanks. I was going for that effect.
Nicely done.
It had a lovely rhythm, like a heart beat or the ebb and flow of the tide.
Dream-poem-prose-story
Yes, dreams can be soooooo elusive.
The whole thing is like the moment of waking. Nice.
How lovely – I often have very vivid dreams, and I’m always intrigued to see people tackle the topic, to see what they experience in that special half-waking, half-sleeping state. Very poetic piece; I’d love to read more.
A haunting portrayal of dreams and how shreds can linger.
Definitely a dreamy story. Beautiful.
Ephemeral, just like a dream. Very well put.
Beautiful, neither the narrator nor the reader really know where the dreams begin and waking life ends. Everything flows through time.
I enjoyed your story. I related. Dreams, almost seen, never seen. Certainly depends on the dream.
Beautifully written.. has an ethereal feel to it. Enjoyed this.