All traces of reality gone, I spend my days walking in dreams, wondering, always wondering when I will wake, what will happen when the dream is gone, where I will be. Is it a place that I, dreaming, remember distantly, or is my memory but a part of the dream that envelops my being? When I wake, who will I be? Am I really whom I have spent all my life thinking I am? These fears, these thoughts, these hopes, these visions and these voices, are they truly mine? When I wake, will I remember all this and know why it is important, or will it be but scraps and flashes of another life that has no meaning? And the people who surround me, what of them? Do I walk among living, waking people, a lone sleepwalker, or is this world peopled entirely by other dreamers? Or do I dream them as well? And now I am bombarded by a confusion stranger than the unreality that I sense, for the strangeness of the idea and the largeness of its scope are beyond my grasp. I retreat within the dream and take what comes. Should I wake, then so be it, but for now, I dream that I write about dreaming. . .

December '00

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