If you asked my memory, it would tell you that I haven't been dreaming for the past few days. My memory is obviously wrong, and as luck would have it I remembered one of the short dreams I had last night.
It was, unsurprisingly about writing. I had trouble getting to sleep, so I decided to read some poetry, and that ended up in me writing a little. This didn't stop whilst I was sleeping.
I was writing. My entire dream, I was sat on my bed with a small black book in my lap, writing. I was writing poetry, and I was writing fiction, and everything else my brain could come up with. It was wonderful. The pages filled up fast and I loved every word of it. It was probably just jumbled up letters, but I was insanely proud of it.
I woke up feeling strange, but happy. Hopefully my days will become more like that, but with less gibberish words.
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