To the Dreams

Dear Dreams,
You swing through my mind like misty monkeys (grabbing one part of my brain, then another) and disappear into those dark crevices where dim and sometimes wicked things reside—algebra and the table of elements, for example. Sometimes a few of you stick around and serenade my brain with your soft screeching. When you do, I am lost in the daydreams that you weave around my nerve bundles, and behind my eyelids I see your visions: lush, brilliant things that captivate me and lead me in circles.


I dwell on you and forget to live—and then you leave, and I am lost for a while. But then you return, and all is well. This cycle continues, over and over; sometimes you take the form of life-goals and aspirations, and sometimes you haunt stage four of my sleep, but my memory is strong regarding your ways, and I never fail to get caught in your gossamer webs.

They shine in the moonlight of my inner night, and I like shiny things.

You know what I think of you, my dollar-store dreams. How much I love you despite how greatly you pain me sometimes. When you reveal things about myself that I would rather have stayed hidden, I don’t know what to do. I can’t erase you, and you won’t go away unless I write you down—and I am so often afraid to do so.


But you are beautiful. Yes, indeed, you are nothing if not beautiful and vibrant, pulsing with life and feelings and colors. I look forward to you every night, regardless of what you may bring to my mind. You are a part of me, after all, and when you swing through my mind, it is like I am swinging among you, free and wild for a few hours.

I relish and cherish you.

All my love,
Irene.