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Poem

In the quiet slipstream of night,  
where thoughts unfurl like tendrils of smoke,  
some dismiss dreams as mere echoes—  
brain farts, they jest,  
leftover gas from our wakeful hours.

But dreams stretch beyond the scraps  
of unprocessed thoughts and muted emotions.  
They are more,  
extensions of our daylit drama,  
sometimes prophets foretelling what looms on our horizons,  
sometimes just mirages painted on the dark canvas of sleep.

Our dreamland,  
a second dwelling,  
alien yet familiar,  
where Jung’s words whisper through the ether:  
the roots of our dreams tangled deep in the psyche,  
reflecting the parts of our souls  
aching for recognition,  
lying fallow like fields  
waiting for the perfect moment to bloom.

Here, in this nightly pilgrimage,  
we roam free from the physics of the real,  
each dream a petal of possibility  
in the sprawling garden of what might be.  
We meet, converse, and part  
with parts of ourselves  
we barely recognize by light of day.

In dreams,  
our fears dance before us,  
our desires sing their siren songs,  
and our truths, too wild for the waking world,  
find their voice.

So let us not dismiss our night travels  
as mere residue of the day.  
For in the realm of dreams,  
we learn the language of our own depths,  
mapping constellations  
in the unexplored galaxies of our inner universes.  
In dreams, we are home  
and homesick all at once,  
forever wandering, forever found.

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