Dreams

     He never got into an unmade bed. The tangles of the day were enough without the twisted sheets and wrinkled patterns of the previous night to compete with. An unmade bed is a welcoming beginning, a place to willingly succumb to night's wonder and trickery in hopes of a pleasant voyage to a place without consequence. He wanted to dream all night, to be taken to places he wasn't allowed, to see things that could never happen -- to love people he never thought he could. Sleeping, he lived with the reckless play of a child, a life free from the miasma of foresight. There were nights when he wished never to be woken up, nights where the quiet desires of day were enacted behind his eyes. Always, though, he woke up. And he wondered where the truth lay. Did he really feel the things he felt in his sleep? Sometimes they hung around for a long time, casting doubt on his days like a shadow. He felt like his silhouette was the part of him that lived in his dreams, forever beside him, yet impossible to fully reach. A suggestion of who he might be, following him forever in the judging gaze of the sun.