Lost Dreams

Once again he awakened with the juicy part of a dream playing in his mind’s monitor. Alas, as often happens, the finale escaped observation. Perhaps I need a dreamcatcher. It’s as bad as recording a movie on the DVR only to find out after watching it for two hours that the last several minutes were cut off, leaving the climax and denouement missing. Of course it’s the odd ones, as if most aren’t inscrutable enough, that slide into the gray matter never to be seen again. Well that’s not entirely true; I did have a rerun the other night. Bad enough the TV networks do that–my mind should come up with fresh content!

Back to the lost finale. Actually, this one had no lead-in or plot development at all. Just a bizarro clip lasting no more than 60 seconds and maybe just 30. They were in bed, ready for a frolic. He turned to gaze at her naked body. On her familiar flesh he saw something strange–flowing words tattooed in a bold cursive across her abdomen and down one thigh. Very flamboyant, thick black cursive–so much so that a first look failed to reveal the meaning. When had she done this? Why? What does it mean? Before he could ask, before he could comprehend the script, he woke up. Argh!

For this dream he would happily accept a replay, if only to see the ending. When he saw her the next morning she professed surprise and offered to show him there were no words tattooed on her body. Like so many dreams, interpretation is a challenge. This one more so than most in its brevity and unlikely connection to reality.

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