A dream,

they say, is a horse that has wandered into a thicket. It may have momentarily forgotten its course. It may have abandoned its rider or lost its saddle back in a ditch. It may have surrendered to the lure of the wild. It loves the fog, the way it masks the landscape, the way it colors the air so you can actually see it. It moves like a dancer or a drunk. There is a labyrinth in its legs, two caverns for ears where bats could play laser tag all night. In its nostrils, the scent of apples and hay; the riddles of sex, salt, and water. The skitter of pebbles on shale portends a turn; and the crack in the voice of lightning. A dream is a body that pushes forward through the blue swamp: chest heaving, all senses rippling toward meaning.

 

In response to Via Negativa: Unmastered.

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