It’s No Wonder I’m Not Rested When I Wake[1]

My novels are become portals to another world, one that can be entered only in sleep.  Not those I seek to write but those I reread.  I wonder if new novels will affect me the same way?

I start to read, meld with the plot and having become one, become lost in semi-slumber, and then sleep.  Not restful sleep, not exactly, but a sleep filled with dreams, another active reality.

The urge to dream is a heavy gravity well which draws me beyond power of resistance through dark doors of infinite entropy into a realm of solid light, the collection of the ages, where all light goes not to die but to metamorph into a physical reality, bearing all the messages and memories of every nanosecond in every eon.

It’s no wonder I’m not rested when I wake.

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[1] © Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2010; all rights reserved