I wanted... to run to you after I woke up. But it was not so much waking up as it was getting away from them. From the dream, from the gray. 
I have with me only vague apprehensions from it. The numb feeling of being trapped in ice, surpassing the normal span of a lifetime. Unable to think, everything was rote this morning. Was that my face? It looked so worn and tired. These eyes saw nothing, encumbered by the dream that would not show its face. I needed comfort. The clock struck nine. The banal beast of the workaday had already its hour's headstart. 

I kept waking and waking, my throat and mouth were parched. My head felt like it was filled with cotton. I felt anxious for the morning sun. Stepping outside to capture the very deep blue of the sky. The youngest of our household was making preparations for the morning meal, asking me if I wanted anything. The world is still right. Nothing has changed, that is, the dream has not crossed over and stayed out of reach. 

Now in the sobriety of routine, the workplace with its own brand of mundane provides a little comfort. There are things to be done. There is the smile I have to put on. I think about how different it could be for someone else to have the same dream. Of how they would see through it and understand its meaning. They are weapons, implements, tools, masks and messages - these dreams. But what does it mean? Where does it come from this dream? 

I hope you have a good day, my love. It is raining here, and it is cold and everybody is sneezing. I sat down on one of the benches in the exhibit area to have my meager breakfast. Two old ladies came in, the first one with a rapt expression on her face. White hair, white sweater, wide open eyes. I went about my business, but out of courtesy took off the earphones. Orbital could wait a few seconds. She edged closer, as if to tell me a secret. 
You see, this is strange only to people who know. In my country it is unthnikable to disturb strangers when they are having a meal. 
Whatever it was it had to be important. 

"My son owns Milio's. I told him about your hair and its perfect feathers and touches and lines and color." 

The other lady comes up behind her, reminding me of a child curious as  to what has captured her friend's fancy. 

"What, is he doing, some sort of new art?"  You won't believe what tickles people these days. 

"Oh no, he's just putting cream cheese on a bagel." 

What_a_day (:  I miss you, sweetheart. I wish you were here to see the look of simple fascination on their faces. 

Your own, 
herein my name is sigil