The Dream

I dream often these days. The nights are punctuated with sweat filled nightmares , not the sort that you dream in your childhood with a morbid terror , but more like viewing some tragedy from a bystander's view , detached , dry but filling your heart with slow seeping cold. Everytime I get up and sip water , tepid and laced with an iron taste . Most likely the strong dry iron taste of my distaste at having to go through something which has no basis except in some deep layers of my subconscious. The dreams don't tell me anything. They are small hazy images , blurring from virtual to real without any logic or reason. Like for instance , yesterday I dreamt of huge blood clots in funny irregular shapes all over , on the floor , on the walls , on the sofa chair . Sometimes during the day while dealing with routine mundane things of everyday living , they jumped up suudenly with a clear sharp focus . What was I aborting ? Something which had nestled deep within my heart , took shape , form and body but now was wanted no more. I never cried for it in my dream . It is now that when I am completely awake a keening wail rises silently , pushing all else towards the periphery. I laugh and talk and eat and do other thousand things which people do everyday , while the dream , the golden dream slowly aborts itself.