Between Here & Now.

My dad was recounting a noteworthy dream he'd had and it triggered in me a mental revival of a dream I'd recently had. I would say, appropriately I suspect you'll soon see, that I had forgotten about this dream but its effects seem to have lingered. Regardless, I've gotten my hands on a pristine copy of Van Morrison's Moondance and I feel like recounting this dream "publically."

The dream is very simple: I'm laying in bed in the morning, just about to wake up. Someone is sitting in the only chair in my room at the desk. This person is familiar but only in the dream. In the dream I have a sense that it is a woman sitting there, but I have no information to confirm this. It's just a sense I have of a feminine presence. She turns in the chair to be facing my direction, though I still cannot see her and she says something. Something very simple and direct, three or four words, and for life of me I cannot remember them now. Then she's standing up, then she's by my bed. Then I open my eyes in real life but its almost like the dream is still rolling because I cannot figure out that no one was there. I'm both checking the bathroom and the hallway for someone and, as I begin to wake up, feeling foolish to be checking at all.

All together, its mostly unremarkable. But the strength of that presense was really something. Even after a week or so, it sticks with me, remaining equal parts vague and vivid.

Having reflected on it just now, I'm wondering where the strength of it came from. Maybe because the dream took place so close to the surface it blurred the seperate realities of dream state and full consciousness. Maybe that I was experiencing the dream from a traditional dream state while also peering into it from a perch of consciousness elevated my experience of it from disregard to high regard. Maybe lodged delicately and quietly is a space, a wide room of paint cans and white walls, a lion's den of ideas, a thumping beat in need of melody, between here and now.