Sometimes, while teetering on the very brink of consciousness, I catch a glimpse of a dream that I have dreamt days or months before, and without thinking, I grope for it. I try to grasp the shreds I will soon forget forever. I can sometimes remember much of an old dream, when I finally unearth it, I rediscover the emotions that I had as I first dreamt it. Woefully, as I re-experience the dream, it slowly begins to blur; I am loath to let it go. I want to feel it again; I want every atom in my body, every part of me steps in and demands to be taken seriously; it becomes the controller, and forbids me to hold on to the precious memory. It takes the fragments of the vision and hurls them deep into my subconscious where they mix with the endless ocean of mirages and become hidden and lost. I do not understand this unfairness; I am devastated by the lack of cooperation between the two sides of me; I writhe and try furiously to go where I was before, to return to some country familiar to me. Pitilessly the dark hands of my brain mask the eyes that I somehow have at eleven-thirty at night and I am blind once more to the stirrings deep inside myself; they mock my soul. My brain says that there is nothing I can possibly gain by reliving these silent ecstasies; I ought to think of work and money and my future. I listen to this and I am forced, in my weak state, to believe it; at last I emerge from the murky depths and I am awake. n