Ensnared deep within a nightmare, each horrendous improbability seems so real that terror is paramount. Monsters stalk us, phantoms of our sleeping minds. It seems peculiar to me that somewhere in the depths of our souls this darkness lies in wait, seeking an opening to emerge, only to fade away in the harsh light of day. They leave behind no lasting impression, only a fleeting sense of darkness.

Even good dreams are no better. All sweetness and light, they offer a tantalizing glimpse of paradise, a momentary wish fulfillment. They slip from deep inside and swell to satisfy some hidden yearning, then burst like a soap bubble with the coming of dawn. There is no substance to them, no lasting grace.

Why then, do we dream? There seems to be no purpose to it, a mere waste of time and effort, and yet we dream. Dreams are the substance of our lives; we build our hopes and goals on their shaky foundation. We tie our futures to their gossamer bodies, and this is how we live. Somehow, it is the things we see in our dreams that enable us to go on. It seems ridiculous to let dreams call the tune to which we dance.

Dreams are funny things. People are funnier.

M.C. Sak (c) 12/18/1998