Dreams often seem comprised of our lives, cut up into fragments and swirled about as if in a kaleidoscope until utterly weird combinations float through our subconscious. One could say dreams are the trash heaps of our consciousness, or maybe the recycling bin, if you were charitable.
Dreams eerily echo the secret desires of our hearts too, and sometimes our secret fears appear like phantasms chasing us into our own unexplored dark corners. If our minds are oceans, each fragment of a dream is a phytoplankton- essential, infinite, tiny, unknowable.
When Elias sat bolt upright in bed, he felt as if he had plunged through a tear in the universe and been jolted awake only by the firmness of his grip on the jagged fibers at the edge of the hole. He couldn’t tell if he had cried, sweated, or both. Adrenaline rushed through his veins like amphetamines; his very skin prickled with an uncomfortable awareness of himself as a living being.
The kaleidoscope of his mind had been busy, whirring out dreams like a factory whirs out parts. The fragments jostled for position in his mind, a moment of not-so-immortal memory sparing them their own mortal fears. Sometimes dreams aren’t psychedelic patterns of the unrelated detritus of life- sometimes life is the dream, and dreams are the sense. I watched Elias shake off the memories, determine which absurdity was real, before he rose.
Elias certainly had not dreamed of sheep.