I woke up this morning in a fog thick as soup, an extended version of that final stage of sleep where dreams still have more clarity than whatever reality you’re facing. Some part of my conscious mind had latched onto a key phrase that seemed very important, and I had to memorialize it immediately.
I reached over to my computer still open on the floor next to my bed, and I hit ⌘V on the keyboard, fully expecting it to paste my thoughts directly onto the screen.
Nothing happened. I was confused for more than a second until it dawned on me that even if the technology did somehow exist to bridge a direct neural link to my MacBook Pro, I had forgotten to hit ⌘C first.
I quickly typed out the phrase that was floating in my head, one that dissolved into the ether in the very moment I wrote it. Satisfied, but still not quite awake, I rolled out of bed and began my morning routine.
When I came back to my computer freshly scrubbed and fogless, I looked down to find the cursor still blinking at the end of my dream sentence:
Diagram the gem of the eternal tides.
Yeah. I have no idea what it means either. The only thing I remember is that it felt terribly significant at the time. Still, I dig it. It’s as though I received a mysterious order from my subconscious.
I love that just over an hour ago, I existed in a state where the command to “diagram the gem of the eternal tides” made perfect logical sense as part of some grander dreamscape narrative, and in that unconscious pastiche of people and places that promptly receded into the depths of some black and unrecoverable trench, one tiny little sentence managed to crystalize and become solid, the words dropping like fresh die-cast metal into my waking life, still glowing red from their transition.
I love that every night a whole other hidden world flashes its momentary existence through our synapses. I love that it’s a part of us, but it’s somehow not ours to keep. I love that we occasionally catch glimpses and fragments, and while most of the time they may mean absolutely nothing, every once in a while it can still feel like they’re dripping with magic.