Writings in the Sand

In Dreams

One thing about getting old is you look back much more than you look forward. It only makes sense I suppose, since there is more behind than ahead. But it's also a sense of loss, and wishing that old times and the people there could be brought back. Last night, I fell asleep for a minute or two and the television woke me. When it did, I was in the kitchen of my childhood home, talking to my mother. Both have been gone for many years. But it's always a difficult transition from comfortable dream to reality. I found this little poem in a file of doodads and scribbles. Don't know where on WDC it might be found, but it's probably out there, somewhere.

Never believe a dream,
that shows you what you want to see.
Never mistake your desire,
for somnolent prophecy.
So often I wake,
in a place I hold dear,
until I open my eyes,
and your face disappears.


Or, as Roy Orbison put it:

In dreams I walk with you
In dreams I talk to you
In dreams you're mine all of the time
We're together in dreams, in dreams