HOW THE DREAMS COME TO US, SUNDAY NOTES

    ©tedoré
 

They arrive like guests who know the way without ever having walked it. We never see the hour of their departure, yet each night they find us, fumbling, unguarded, stretching their quiet fingers through the slit of sleep. 

Not a knock. Not a name. Just the soft trespass of their presence, as if our souls had always kept a backdoor open for them. Some come draped in familiar faces, carrying the weight of old promises.

Others arrive faceless, faceless yet radiant, speaking in the dialect of winds over black water. There are dreams that feel like rain falling from beneath the earth, and others that feel like smoke climbing into our lungs, velvet, invisible, devastating. 

We think we dream, but it is not we who call them. They find us because we are made porous for them. They find us because the day is too heavy to hold everything we are. At night, the skin grows thin as parchment and the ink seeps through. 

Sometimes I wonder if the dreams are pieces of another world we’ve already lived. Or echoes of a world that longs to live through us. They come because they must. They come because they can. They come because even silence needs a voice in the dark. And when we wake, we say it was nothing. But we know better. We can still feel their breath lingering on the edges of our minds, salted, strange, holy. 

Dreams never really leave. They wait. They wait for us to sleep again, so they may slip once more into the tender breach between what we are and what we have not yet dared to become