Pieces of the people we used to love

Dreams.

We have them. We forget them. All dreams are different. All dreams are the same. The dreams I speak of are not of the ambition sphere, but rather, of the videoistic kaleidoscope of fuzzy, if not hazy, images that float in wild abandon when we sleep. Dreams are not the same as nightmares, for if they were, I would pity the latter, because she would be a subset. And she does not deserve such a status.

People say that we dream of the things we think of most during the day. People say we dream of the things we worry about. People say that dreams are a premonition of the future. People say that dreams are a tapestry of history, coming back to haunt us. People. What do they know. Dreams are not nightmares.

My dreams are as they can only be, dreams. My dreams are of demons and vampires. My dreams are of werewolves and women in white. My dreams are of possessions, and yellow eyes, of ghouls and trolls, of zombies and the undead. My dreams are of the woman in black, of Rebecca.

People say they are frightful. People say my room is haunted. People say that I am disturb(ing)ed. People say. People ignore the fundamental fact, that dreams follow no other law, but to fade away under the flood of light.

People. What do they know.