It is funny how a song sounds different at night compared to the morning. It makes me think if I’m even the same person when the day changes. We change a little after every night as we begin anew into every morning that comes after. If the day does not have enough pull on who we are, dreams get the job done. For me, dreams were a repetition of my general days. It had always been this way. I was perpetually living two of the same life. I did the same work I was engaged in, lived in the same place, the same town, with the same people. Of course, there were slight, dreamlike variations, but the general feeling was the same. I had my theories for this. Mostly, it was just my obsession with doing things right. A day was rarely enough. I had to live them twice, at least. I have always dreamt of my own life—it was an irritating affliction.
Yesterday, I sat on the patio, and I read my Pessoa, which seems to be finally showing signs of a book that becomes your friend. There are cuts on the pages, the corners bent out of shape, the pages are yellow, and there are spots here and there. As I read, the wind blew about from all directions, the grass swayed in perfect choreography, the discarded leaves and petals circled and formed twisters that amounted to nothing, and the trees shook violently as if performing some shamanic dance. It was a moment of pure, natural passion. I kept reading as the coffee got cold and dusty. Then, I spent the rest of the day with some discomfort here and there. No day could be perfect—most days found a way to give you some sort of pain.
In any case, in my dream yesterday, I wrapped my work up to go out and read on the patio. It was stormy still, and I still read for an hour or two.
At night, after working at a stretch in lieu of sleep, I watched the full moon in all its glory. Sleeplessness was a noble excuse to get things done. Then, I hit the bed. I saw the full moon again in my dream and hit the bed again, turning the music out—I had been listening to the same song for hours. When I woke up a few hours later, the song was still playing.
I shook the feeling off, made some coffee, and sat writing the first draft of the day.