The Man In The White Suit
Every morning it’s the same. Whatever was going on behind my eyes during the night is gone. I wish I could remember my dreams more clearly than I do. Earlier this week I dreamt I killed an elderly man in a white suit in a field. A place where Agatha Christie might choose to begin a Marple tale. The melatonin has made my dreams more vibrant and terrifying than ever. Each fragment remembered both end and beginning. Perhaps I put these in my notebook to remember them now more than remember them later. Perhaps I head to MidJourney to get what’s in my head into the computer. Perhaps I do all of this. The compulsion here is to find a way to get what’s in… out. To get what’s there… here. To make a new path which bridges something I’m told when I’m not conscious, and to manifest it in the real world. Not in a dadaist or surrealist sense. I am not interested in weird for weird’s sake. But I am interested in trying to surface something new as a creative outlet. I’ve often thought that dreams are like the pages of your life, skimmed forwards and backwards. I don’t remember where I heard that, but it still resonates with me. It won’t come naturally, or some mornings even at all, but when it does choose to linger upon the alarm going off, let’s try to lean in with a curiosity and see what follows.
