Feverish dreams can be a beautiful thing. Their often raw, disjointed, full of confused and fantastic imagery, and, every once in a while, linear. The trouble is, if you are ill enough to be dreaming these dreams, you are probably too sick to do anything about it.
I woke up this morning with a head full of stars and a story about those who fly between them, their ships and their gods, their faliures and ideals. Alternate images flashed through the peripheral vision of my mind’s eye – dragons and ninja-toads walking through neon-lit cityscapes; colors swirled and collided and faded and re-emerged two shades to the left and just a tad more interesting. Ghosts sipped tea while their descendents checked their watches with bored expressions. Sounds bled in from a thousand sources, coalescing in a three part blues symphony. A mixed mess of officers from various fictional ships discussed the difficulties involved in commanding disparate legions. Faces creeped along all axis until they framed themselves along the rule of thirds. Robots howled with laughter as a single unit performed the dance called “the robot” in mocking aproximation of his human captors. Textures became backgrounds, sliding forward until they occupied the entire field of view and then faded to black.
I woke up and remembered all of this and wondered if the physical exhaustion and discomfort were worth all this discombobulated confetti. It is and it was. But I’m ready to be well again.