On the thirty-first day, or actually on the night of the thirty-first day, of writing in this blog I dreamed about it.
Don’t remember the dream, but when I woke this morning, still lying in bed, I saw the near third quarter moon out the window and my first thought was of this blog. I did not think anything except I said to myself, maybe in a low near audible whisper “I was dreaming about the blog.”
Perhaps that means it is a part of me, at least for now.
It was also a night through which I slept the entirety with only the near-conscious occasional roll from back to left or right side, but I never fully woke. I sleep well. Some nights I wake to the extent that I get up, walk into the kitchen for a drink of water, then visit the west wing and check email and occasionally even answer one or two. Then I return to bed after half an hour of near full consciousness.
But last night I was asleep the entire seven hours before I rose for this day.
I do not remember dreams with any regularity. When I do have a slight recollection and try to truly remember the details, if I try earnestly to grasp the images from the dream, they vanish as if I were grasping smoke. Just the act of closing my hand around an image pushes it away and always just out of reach. Try too hard and the image vaporizes and voices fade that were real just minutes before.
A few days before I started this blog I had a dream with two vivid images that I did remember. The substance, the plot, the action, the dramatic tension of the dream, if there was any, were all lost when I woke, but not the two images: dirigibles and high speed trains. I tighty held one clear image: the view from the cabin suspended below the dirigible’s belly as it traveled slowly, only a few feet above the rails laid for a high speed train. I never saw the train; I never left the dirigible. I merely floated at a slow steady pace above the tracks and watched a shadowy urban landscape pass.