Forty times a night, I wake up doused in sweat. My hand reaches out into the black beyond trying to grasp the final remnants of a forgotten dream only for it to flow between my fingers into the final beyond. I weep at the loss. I weep back to sleep only to dream more and more of the loss I felt until.
Finally I wake on one of those forty times and I don’t reach out to save the lost thought. But I lie in bed and realise those fantasies are gone completely. On that occasion I do not weep the loss but smile at the victory of overcoming the handicap. What’s gone is gone and gone for good. This is especially true for what was never there in the first place.