The more mysterious stories

It’s intriguing how life leaks into dreams, and dreams fertilize writing.

Those who are close eluded reinvention, while the long-forgotten figures loiter.  The faces they wear and the emotions they invoke in dreams spark inspiration, sometimes curious realization.

In an alternate universe where he went on and shattered others, how ashamed and repentant did I felt.  In dreams, naked truths come before logic.  My contrition and sympathy wrecked me.  How could any of his wrongdoings be my fault?  I wondered, as the pen stranded above the page. 

In a conference room where no other participant ever arrived, the two of us sit silently across the table, while time elongated into eternity.  We never exchanged a word, not even a nod.  But I trust him completely.  When vexed by life or perplexed by emotions, in the silent conference room he always sit.  His soothing presence, calmly and quietly, waited with me in the endless stream of time, for the meeting to begin. 

In the world she invented I seemed to always get lost in the same block.  On bicycle or on foot, after I hurried through the familiar myriad of alleys, I always ended up in the vicinity of the same square, couldn’t at all grasp the complexity of my destination.

I try to document what was left behind, but the elusive memories of dreams can seldom be trusted.  I believe they are more than random slivers of imagination, but revealing fragments of life.