These last three nights leave me awake in the morning with a distinct sense of separation between the dream thinker and the waking thinker. As though consciousness is some thing passed over from the one to the other, and not a spectrum and a moving through.
Where the dreaming one whispers to the one who will wake like images winding fast back to their reel. Half caught, unheard, in blurred colors, but, also, matter of fact, undaunting. I remember nothing but the movements.
I think this to be a transitional sort of dreaming, and this representation of my self at its sleep a bridging mechanism, like I am learning the brain at both its sides, like I learn the movement from past to future and become present, having the sense of becoming alert in both places.