Forgotten

I’ve forgotten how to sleep. I remember I used to dream. Flying or being chased, searching through a half-familiar house, touching or being touched, walking with someone who became someone else. All of these dreams were real to me and then the flashing lights came and now when I close my eyes I’m only blinking. I remember the lights. They did something to me, took something from me. 

There is no sleep, no rest, only the world of physics and chemistry and biology. All of philosophy and religion and art has become tasteless and utilitarian. 

And yet, the lights missed one thing. I haven’t forgotten you. I remember your hands, your lips and voice, the smell of you and the light that shines in your eyes. 

Someday, I’ll find a way back to sleep and that blessed land of dreams. 

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