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by Robbi Nester Asleep, my mind time-travels, takes me places the waking self can’t reach, delving in the well of my experience. Time’s elastic, seconds stretching into centuries. Minutes hiccup like the hands of an old clock. The sleeping mind stares deeply into the darkness of sealed rooms, reads signs in clouds. It knows what we, awake, can only guess. A friend confides her certainty a corpse lay near her as she slept. When she awoke, she felt a presence in the room. Soon, police were knocking at the door, advising her to stay inside: a body, not too many hours dead, lay in the bushes underneath her bedroom window. Does this mean we visit other realms, or is it just the residue of sense? Can we learn to use the excess wattage of a mind on hold, the powers we’ve been told we have but never harness? Why can’t the self that sometimes prods me like a parent in my dreams with truth disguised as nonsense shape my waking world? Copyright 2020. All rights reserved.
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