I awake with a start, the gossamer remnants of a dream swirling and fogging my mind. It’s 3 am and but for the deep, steady breathing beside me, the house is silent. Outside, the waning moon offers only a suggestion of a shadow among the cold, snow-wrapped trees. Nothing moves. The disturbance that interrupted my sleep prefers to remain hidden and unknown.
These words take shape as I drift back into sleep, hoping I can remember them in the morning.
For some reason I seem to do my "best" writing (yes, of course, that’s subjective) in that sliver of consciousness between fully awake and sound asleep. There’s something about that twilight zone where perception and reality blend so seamlessly that we can simultaneously think ourselves brilliant and yet still be aware that brilliance may be but a fuzzy deception that will not stand the light of day.
I love that not-quite dream space. It’s rare and precious in its creativity and unpredictability, and far, far too fleeting.