The dream sat at the edge of my consciousness all morning.
Like a flickering lamp — flashes never materializing into a bright whole.
Of course not. I was awake.
By early afternoon only the memory remained. A night story of the mind. Subconsciousness riveted by life, maybe. This dream, broken and mysterious, stayed with me longer than any other during the wake state when dreams should be gone.
Will I ever see it again?
Have you experienced persistent bits of dreams throughout the day? Not memories, but fragmented bursts of the real deal that push to the surface of your mind at random times. Demanding attention. Then fading away.
My grandmother, in the old country, used to interpret dreams in all forms. I think every woman her age did. She inspired the dream decoder character in my novel, Stranger or Friend.
I remember her talking about chance encounters, the possibility of an argument in near future, a visitor — all read from dreams. Some things foretold happiness, others not so much.
To my grandmother dreams in any form meant something. They were to be dissected, analyzed, discussed.
Those days are now a distant memory.
Wish I had listened closer.
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