Dreams and Desire

What makes us grasp so furiously upon waking, for that which has just been torn, rent asunder by the simple act of rising; for meaning in the ramblings ruptured? What makes us yearn so for that which our sleeping mind has conjured, half from exhaustion, half from seeming madness; for a world so far from that of the callous conscious? Is it a desire to understand? To comprehend what happens behind our eyes, what thoughts are truly our innermost, whether the visions are absurd or allusive? Is it a desire to escape? To remain behind with the lunacy, to rejoice in its flippancy and levity, to gain sanctuary from the odd or ordinary ennui? I have not the answer to these questions, nor suggestions beyond these queries themselves; I pose these to all, for inspection and perspective - mayhap many can solve what one creature cannot.