I’m very near that critical moment in a dream, when lucidity allows me to control the narrative, but the setting grows increasingly transparent and reality begins to leach slowly in, that moment when a sound outside the window in the morning breaks through sleep and permutates and brings with it traces of the world from which I’ve been removed.
Waking seems so sharp and immanent, and I can hear the day approaching and my grip on the illusion growing tenuous, and while it’s still intact I take advantage of my agency but everything I do just pulls apart the fabric, letting in the colder air.
I’m very near that moment when my eyes abruptly open and the shock of separation from unreality puts worry in my chest that reeks of drawn conclusions and well-thought-out responses, that moment when the water hits and steals my breath and I can’t imagine that I’ll ever breathe again. But I always do. And knowing that I regain my senses every time, that I cope with losing dreams so well that when they’re over I’ve no recollection of them but the instant when they overlap with what I can’t control, knowing that I can’t help but disregard them is perhaps saddest thing I’ll have to tell.