Once I heard a story about a musician who dreamed music and would write it all down when he woke. I always envied that kind of creativity, cause I just can't do it. And then this summer, I started dream writing. I remember thinking, in that place somewhere between sleep and awake, that I was writing prose in my sleep, and I remember thinking, with some measure of pleasant surprise, that this stuff was better than anything I've ever written whilst awake.

And then comes the dreadful feeling of knowing that the God given hour of creation I've been granted will slip away when I wake up. I wrestle there within my own mind, wanting desperately to just wake up and write it all down before it disappears, but knowing that if I wake up it will stop.

And then it stopped for a while, and I slept peacefully, not worrying about the mental wrestling matches that exhaust me. The prose writer inside my sleep cycles had surrendered. And then the poetry writer woke up.

That's right. I've started dreaming in poetry.

I don't know if I can handle it. This morning I woke up and laid in bed for a while, trying to remember. Nothing came. Have you seen Dragonheart? I feel like Brother Gilbert, who, seized by a moment of inspiration, spouts epic poetry. Then, as the moment ends, he returns to his senses and shouts,
"That was good! What did I say? What did I say?"

I'm stuck on the cusp of wonderland, and I might be going mad.