The most irritating thing in the world is to wake up on a half-finished dream. It is like coming up for air on the back of a wave when you had just started to like the idea of staying down and drowning,with your eyes open.

You wake up with a tangy taste in your mouth, the tang of sea-air that you had almost felt riffling through your hair as you tightened up the rigging of your boat and the tang of sea-water that you had almost, almost felt splash across your face. you wake up and then all you are left with is the bitter aftertaste of hope, and in your eyeballs the last bits of that imaginary map you had found somewhere inside the attic of your past, dissolve away. you come up for air, and then you see blue sky and grey sand and the ordinariness of your life here, and you madly scramble inside your head, trying to find all the pieces of your life elsewhere and lock them up to be put together later.

Of course, that later never comes. You never quite die in your dreams the same way again. funny thing is, your half-finished dreams never grow old. you never grow old in them.

There will come a time, when you are old, when life seems like brief snatches of random memory picked up and stuck carelessly, almost cruelly, into the half-finished dream that you wake up into,every day. and then, when you open your eyes, you feel the ruddy sea-air flow through your nearly-gone hair and somewhere inside your nearly-blind, white eyeballs you see a man, who might be someone you once knew, poring over an old map, tightening the rigging on his boat, waiting for the tide to take him out.


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