I am a dreamer of words

Words are written, erased, then written again. Seeking perfection through repetition. But why bother? I will just lost my name like raindrops of time dried by the sun. what do they care if I am young or old or believed in what I wrote?

For the past month or two, I've noticed that my dreamscapes have changed. Before they were, more often or not, a Mission Impossible action-packed montage of being chased and flying and villains trying to blow me up. Since moving to Alaska, I dream about the next day, walking to work, talking to the people I always talk to. How mundane in comparison. And yet the colors are so rich in hue and the details of pictures and posters so vivid. Lately, I've even been dreaming of words which I can't recall ever having remembered upon waking before.

Last month, I dreamt of a blazing orange sky, cloudless, the sun immense and searing. A round spaceship was moving slowly along and inside were me, my roommate, and a teenager we'd rescued from a bad home; I could even see our faces peering out of the windows. Suddenly, words began to write themselves on the scene, and it read: "As they passed the left side, the mushiness of the pulp met the sweetness in the middle." I read and reread the sentence before awakening, startled.

Last night, I dreamt I was in a packed schoolbus. I'd ridden it multiple times already and had noticed the buses having odd slogans and advertisements. The posters, instead of talking about bus safety or rules, read strange warnings like: "Everyone knows you never tell your frog that Bozo burnt the books." And these signs kept stressing the words everyone, no one, always and never on them. So this last bus had a large announcement painted on the front end, above the driver's rearview mirror: "Do you need to go back to where you started? Because we look forward to asking you!" Bizarre, huh?