Jesse

LiveWhy do we call dreams the same thing?
The warm smells of summer return on the floating night, drifting imperceptibly on the breezes through open windows. Cool, damp, fragrantly bringing memory of boyhood and youth. When the world was as mysterious and inviting as the night air. Walking down lamp lit asphalt, unseen gardens whispering with the soft melodies of girls’ laughter, tantalizing voices speaking of the beautiful life to come. Now, five summers absent, the warm smells of evening recall these dreams. These dreams, as evanescent as the evening breeze. Inhale as deeply as I can and I cannot reawaken my senses. They have become dull. Try as I can I cannot remember my dreams. I have awakened and become deaf to their soft beckoning.