Still Watches Of The Night

I don’t know why, but I found myself contemplating one of the two recurring dreams I have. (The other one involves my horror of automobiles, more or less; feh.) In the dream(s), I am out running, or speedwalking as it really is since a hundred-sixty-pound tank of lady beef like me is not much in the running line. It is before dawn — usually not much before, the sky light enough to profile rooflines and illumine landscapes. I used to clock mileage at hours like this, back when I had no other options. I remember the silence and gravity of the world, the sentience of the landscape; Wordsworth said “the very houses seem asleep,” but in my near dawns the houses are aware and alive, enjoying the moment between light and the awakening of their drab inhabitants. I greet them. In a succession of dreams, I enter houses whose occupants are sleeping, with no object but to traverse them, needing only to be silent and elusive enough that no one wakes. When I dream this way, I sense that I have passed through this particular house, whatever it may be, time after time — every time dancing on the fragile ice of potential discovery. In the thin light of dawn I have more right in these houses than their inhabitants, no matter what they might think.

A few times, in the dream, early risers have apprehended me. I really don’t remember what happens after that.

I retain a belief that the world is bigger and more aware than the people in it.


7 thoughts on “Still Watches Of The Night

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