every dream remembered
is pillaged by awake-life-recall.
luted for the high-points valued.
streamed-lined corrected,
for memory's storyable account.
where is lucid,
when you need an eyewitness to verify?
are we all just bystanders,
unable to brainstorm sleep,
as if we are all now comatose?
my nightly act-outs attempt
to balance the day,
to bring peace and accord
to day-life madness and stress.
you'd think to remember,
in moving the life-account forward,
but reality itself is a stage unto itself,
and the real truth lies
in the restful stage of living.
I just want to know,
who is it of me,
who tells me,
to make awake-life,
to be the sleep of me
and then,
doesn't stand corrected? . . .
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