Gray Dawn
There are parts of my life that do not feel like my own. They are as real as a mid-night dream, dim, and uncertain. I know they are actual, I know that I participated in the event or the activity, but it is just hazy. The memories recompose themselves as if I am remembering them from the pages of a book I read in high school. They do not have the same tangibility or sensory recall that others have.
What makes it so confusing is that these real memories carry the same weight and importance as many dreams I have. After waking from many such dreams I wonder, no, feel that they are the real memories. They have more substance in my mind than the average dream, more of a weighted sensibility and true emotion than many real memories.
These two intertwine and grow like weeds up the side of the house, eventually covering the glass of the window, or my mind’s eye, making it near impossible to make any distinction between the night and the day. It is a gray dawn that never truly comes to light, never revealing the new day, or the clear mind.
