In dreams.

"A candy-colored clown they call the sandman, tiptoes to my room every night." Roy Oribson

"I can't remember a single dream that I have at night," my brother was telling Corb the other day. "But when I was in the coma for 30 days, I had such vivid dreams, and I remembered every single one of them."

Tommy has spoken to me about some of the dreams he had. I was contemplating working on a few art projects related to the stories, because he's right, they're just so vivid. They really spoke to me.

A lot of them had to do with being boxed in or trapped, which is probably no surprise. There was one he told me about sitting outside on a swing set with our sister Kerrie near a plane terminal, and as they swung on the swing set snow started falling, increasingly heavier until it started to build up around them. And yet, they kept on swinging back and forth. 

There is so much that can be read into a story like that. About dreams of innocence, about life starting to pile up, about inactivity and the desire for movement. About change and lack thereof.

Like Tommy, I don't often remember my dreams, but I do have one recurring dream I have that wakes me up, every few months. When I awake, there's an empty pit in my stomach and I have trouble getting back to sleep. It kind of gnaws at me. "You're missing out," it says.  

In this dream, I am working on writing a novel. And it's actually the same novel I've  been working on in my dreamscape for years now, continuing from dream to dream. 

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