Memories are strange things. They might just be electrical impulses in a lump of fat, but they are carried on in there for an unreasonably long time. They are the foundation of a self that seems to evolve only a fraction through a human life.

Dreams are made of this, of the story we carry with us, but in the dreams they mix with possibilities and scenarios whose origin is rather mysterious. Being imaginative might be part of this, I am not sure of course as I mainly know myself, but at least it seems to me that imaginative people seldom are as surprised as those lesser fantasizing beings when dreams suddenly show things that are odd, choking, revolting or weird.

It gives me some peace that I use so much of my life awake dreaming, when my dreams turn bleak.

This is Hajarto.