And a very rare species.

It is easiest to be taken away by long winds, down sleek tunnels, into questions of the weight of realness. Such ease there is, in slipping into a lack of light and lightness.

Now that I am (sort of) on holidays I have been, in the midst of organizing my room, my life, and its dark orange walls, flipping through the beginnings of a dozen books throughout the day. I read The Unbearable Lightness of Being a while ago, and flipped back to random passages within that book this afternoon. This, among the Watchmen, Pascal's Pensees, some Steinbeck, and more Levinas than is good for me. But Kundera's title pervades.

Anyhow, now, questions and realness. How interesting it is, that it works so well to imagine words coming from the mouths of others, words that do not yet exist and might not come to be, but will still affect an entire string of actions, paving them out of a striking fear or a slim hope. The weighted impression that the unreal, mere imaginations, such weightless brevity, can have on the real, the day, the things a person walks with. The unreal is keeping the real.

The same is in dreams. A person could wake from a bad dream with a terrible start, furrow their brow, and determine themselves to fall back to sleep and change that dream. Or to have one that is fresh and new from which they may inspire the day's real activities. But that might bring them, in returning to sleep, to a worsened state than was before, in an independent happening.

How dire, then, would the circumstance be if that person is unable even to sleep, prevented from such bad dreams for fear of them--perhaps a benefit, then. But is still stuck with imaginations that, like dreams, follow their own plots, and slip and stick in their muck. Muck, or an electric fence. At least there are plenty of books to read.