The Hungry Artist

I look forward to bedtime because I am tired and I know when I rest my body on the bed I’ll get to sleep and therefore rest for several hours. At the same time, of late, I feel a sense of dread. I think this is because lately I’ve been remembering just about every dream (at least it seems like every dream, though I bet I’ve probably had dozens I forget). And then I tell my dream to someone the next day, hoping that by re-telling it, I’ll remember even more of it. And then I remember the agitated feelings while in the dream or waking from it, due to someone I know dying in the strangest of ways, or waking up crying. So I know that when I go to sleep tonight, I’ll have to enter this strange world that is real, just as real as anything else I experience, only to wake up, remember it and realize it was only a dream. Is it only a dream? It’s rather exhausting really, this thing we call sleep, rather than restive. At least when you’re more conscious of dreams or they become more lucid. I’m probably on this dream trip lately because my novel-in-progress revolves around slumber and dream. I feel resigned to remembering more and more of my dreams, feeling certain they’re real, only to have them slip away when I awake, and then return all over again.