One night I was thinking in my sleep.
I was in the middle of remembering
the ending of a story
that I’d once written down but later lost.
It was something to the effect of:
Cat’s eye marbles bouncing down a flight of cement stairs, landing in the backyard at the foot of an anthill. The marbles grow antennae, thoraxes, legs, become glass ants with ribbons of green and amber running through their bodies.
I think the beginning went something like this:
The first day of summer, holding a handful of marbles that look like diamonds in the July sun. None of this is meant for me: a chair against the skyline, halogen traffic, a girl with one foot in the river.
But dreams are like sleep poems—
often forgettable and more dramatic than necessary.
Mine never really have endings.
They kind of just go on,
and then I wake up and organize them
I try not to overthink my dreams.
I try not to overthink in general.
It’s like stacking marbles in your head.
It’s laborious work,
an unhealthy act at best.
But when you’re at war with your battles,
you pick some for surrender.
It usually turns out fine.
Sometimes it doesn’t.
Sometimes it’s the worst and it hurts.
Sometimes it’s the best feeling in the world.
Sometimes marbles turn into ants,
sometimes you sit in traffic;
sometimes all you have are the memories.