Maybe I’ll dream of options.
Maybe I’ll dream of evening primrose.
Maybe I’ll dream of rain—how water goes in all different directions—the way rivers inspired roads and roads started The Internet.
One night I told myself stories—ones that were drained of strangeness—like rinsing beans in the sink. Everything was normal. I was doing email. My sister sent a text: “But what is she not telling us?”
This beat was enough to wake me—I had to remember what was real before morning—my quiet room, the window that rattles, the web annexing the wooden staircase.
Ordinary dreams fray any day at the edges—the truth of the matter is that there always has been a before and after. Before the flood and after the flood. Before the phone call and after the phone call. Before life became as surreal as the spider’s silk.
