Why are things so clear in those waking, distilled moments of darkness and initial fear? Dreams speak something slow and strong to the spirit that confuses and illuminates. Those fleeting insights into a mind untidy, thoughts confused or centered, verging on the realms of absurd are what few illuminations our consciousness' dare reveal. Yet their purpose seems archaic and ineffectual, if the thoughts so readily expressed by the subconscious is obscure and misunderstood by the brain of reality.
Maybe I'm rambling, and maybe that's OK. Isn't the point to ramble on until we find where we're going? And if we didn't ramble, how would we know that where we end up isn't truly where we were meant to be?
