Every now and then, his brain would slip into that space. Neither here nor there. It would be aware of what was happening and where he was, but just barely so. It wanted to pull him as far away from reality as it possibly could, yet keeping abreast, so that it could weave a fabric of non-dreams stitched together by possibility. A fabric that spread over vast areas of thoughts each night. From romantic calamities to sheer wishfulness. He looked forward to it all. During the day, logic and reality spoiled it for him. At night, dreams were scary. But in-between was when it used to all work out. When things seemed possible. The ending of his world, the achievement of his desires, the finding of right words, the right thoughts, the right questions, their answers. He felt he understood himself better this way. Nothing seemed scary in there. He felt at ease and the only thing that poked him was the consciousness that it would end soon and he would be forced into sleep. Then, probably, he would have to get through another dream.

Why was it like this, though? As a kid one of his favorite things was to start writing on a fresh page. But not the one on the left side of the notebook. It was the ones on the right that made him feel good. Though he hated writing, he loved the smooth, cold, fresh, right hand side pages. But even as he began one, he knew it would soon have to be flipped over, and then he would have to get through a painful left hand side page. Is that why things were the way they were? There should be a book that had only fresh right hand side pages on the front and back.

Thoughts like these. That may not make complete sense, but were so pure and rich anyway. They never occurred during the day or in the night. He had but only a small window to live everyday. A window with a beautiful view, of a place he knew he would never visit. He reminded himself each day to capture whatever he could see out of there so that it could get him through his tomorrow. But as always, he knew sleep was creeping up on him to make sure he returned to the same colorless misery. Before he was dragged into the pointless tug between awareness and sleep, 'It seems like it won't happen tonight either' was the last thing he remembered telling himself.