I had a most unusual dream last night, the like of which I’ve
never had before. I dreamt I was lying in bed with a baby boy, old enough to
crawl but no more. I knew him to be my son, and I loved him dearly. I picked
him up and cradled him to my chest until he went to sleep. His mother wasn’t
there; I knew her to be the sort who comes and goes according to her whims. I
felt sad about that, and then I woke up full of tension.
And do you know what? I’m growing a little weary of trying
to grasp and hold on to something I need, but know I can’t have. And yet I have
to keep trying. Maybe that’s the explanation.
I have no son, by the way.
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