A Dream

Last night, I dreamt of food: shredded chicken and tortillas with prickly thorns. Bar-b-q colored people that I considered eating, but, whom I finally spoke politely to as they left our table. Foreigners in white, looking spiritual and rich, but talking nonsense. I dreamed of someone else flying, and I tried it too. Some success. There were paths to follow. Items left behind to wonder about. Large textiles to gather and fold. Should I take this? The greasy tables where we had eaten had to be cleaned. 

Dreams make as much sense as anything. I don’t question their absurdity while I am having them. Not too different from waking life. Someone can come along later and assign meaning, and question metaphor. In waking life, very few times do we say,

“Why are we doing this? What is the emotional significance of this? Does it make sense?”