Last night I dreamt Sammy had bought me a car. It was a very fancy silver Jaguar - easy to drive, sleek, and super comfortable. I can’t explain it better than by saying the whole thing was just silk. You got in it and seemed to wrap itself around you, you turned the key and it purred quietly, then flew like a ribbon catching the breeze. It was all in all, a beautiful car.
Now. I’m no Jeremy Clarkson - either in vocabulary, ethics or temperament, but even I was moved to a sort of poetry of description in the dream, and I piloted the Jaguar to Oxford extolling its virtue the entire way. Sammy couldn’t believe it.
Then I woke up. Guess what. No Jag outside. No silver bullet on the driveway fresh from its maiden road trip to Oxford and back. No poetry. Just grey skies and brittle trees, the sound of ordinary traffic on ordinary roads, and a weak light seeping in through the blind. I couldn’t believe it.
That’s the nature of dreams though, isn’t it. You know they’re real while you’re in them; nothing could be realer - even the unbelievable stuff. Then, you wake up and it’s as though you’ve been sucked through a wormhole and part of you is still spinning with colour. How could it not have been real?
Sometimes you know, I think waking up from vivid dreams is the hardest bit of the day.
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