Edward Day


Every night, the same dream plays in my head. Over and over again. Every night the same dream visits me. From my innermost depths to the surface of my skin. I cannot explain this because I have no evidence that it is recurring. For all my limited mind may know, I make up these dreams every morning to continue this process, allowing myself to believe that these dreams are recurring and in doing so I continue the cycle. Wishful thinking in hopes of maintaining this reality of the night. The boundaries of my tangible self describe this other world as a place of falsity. But how could that which does not exist cause feelings that are real? Why can a “figment of my imagination” cause hope and joy? Pain or agony? In my dreams, all the characters are real. I know them and I’m quite certain all of them know me. They are reanimated as I rest and interact with me in this alternate reality. Real people. Plausible events. Why not should they be real? They affect my soul. They occur before my very eyes. They absorb my thoughts throughout the day.

Dreams are a beautiful thing and I hope one day that these dreams cease to live only in the limitations of the night, for they are great ones.


Copyright 2002-2007 Student Publishing Program (SPP). Poetry and prose 2002-2007 by individual authors. Reprinted with permission. SPP developed and designed by Strong Bat Productions.