From the Shadows of Possibility

These things grow from the morning, held in darkness through the night they begin to stir as dawn’s tentative fingers creep in through the curtained windows. Everything turns from black, from darker shadows lost in shadows, into a dull grey of possibility. The familiar begins to take shape all around as real life slowly edges its way back into the places now being slowly abandoned by the world of dreams. She lingers in the mind as though she waits for me to take the plunge and follow her back into that dream world, to go wherever it is that dreams go to when we leave them on our cooling pillows and turn back to this slow waking world, leaving them behind forever.

The day, though, is insistent and will – eventually – drag me out of that bed to face whatever it is that the morning has waiting for me behind those closed curtains and that door that lies just slightly ajar waiting for me to step out into another morning.

Now there is no night time left, and she has gone walking out of my dream and closed the door upon it. I wonder if I will ever see her again as I struggle out of sleep and realise she is already fading away. I can no longer remember the colour of her eyes, her hair, or remember her name, or just what it was that she promised me that made me want to dive back into that dream and chase all through those corridors of the imaginary until I had her back in my arms again.