There is something dimensionless between sleep and waking, which sometimes comes upon me like bursts of colour, sometimes like lucid images of the sort I had never imagined elsewhere, sometimes a shifting, changing landscape of images.
They tell a story. No, maybe that is not right; they speak. Words, but not any kind of story which sounds familiar. In a sensuous game, the colours defy description and taunt me, not vanishing like the early-morning thought which I want to capture, but ever floating before me, creating weird shapes with their rotation, creating multiple dimensions in lazy motion.
There was a tree, black, almost, a silhouette of the darkest green I could think of, until I saw the hill on which it stands, a deeper green than the secrets the earth keeps hidden under generations of time. Behind the tree on the faraway hill, the sky turned crimson, gold, and velvet, a melange woven by some sleeping creature unwittingly; little did she know what it was that was born of her dreams.
Then there was a pair of legs, belonging to a young woman who stood desultorily at the edge of the beach and was not captivated by the navy sky or the surreptitous bushes. She just stood, a pair of legs foregrounded larger-than-life against the outline of the beach.
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