In the spaces between sleep and wakefulness, I wander. Not by choice, but by the gentle insistence of my mind, which refuses to rest when dreams beckon. Here, at the edges of consciousness, I encounter shadows of thoughts, half-formed ideas spinning like whispers in the dark.
Discussion with an unseen entity, perhaps myself, offers solace: What shall you make of my fragments, when morning strips away the veil of night?
Voices echo, or perhaps there are none, and this is but the clever trick your brain plays. I question the reality of it all. In dreams, do we not become architects, builders of worlds with materials as fleeting as gossamer?
A sensation of falling, yet not falling, through a tunnel of memories, a kaleidoscope of what-might-have-beens. Eyes closed, visualizing pasts that never were, stopping only when the fabric of sleep unravels.
Enter the Dreamscape