Slowly my senses start to seep into the present as unfamiliar bird songs guide me back to the here and now. With eyes closed I was known to strangers around the world, the feelings I transmuted to words made known, shared and embraced and retold as if they belonged to us all.
For some time I take turns shifting between my conscious and subconscious mind, listening closely to the bird calls that stream through the window and settle into the room with the gentleness of soft morning light, hoping they will help me decipher where I am. I can tell that outside “real life” is starting. The restless engines of cars and motorcycles have already begun to forcefully announce the dawn of a new day.
Protected within four walls and happily lounging beneath the artificial breeze of the air conditioner, my memory revisits the thrill of recognition as it recalls only fractions and flashes of last night’s dream.
Here, in this space without a name, softly spread between reality and fantasy, is where I thrive; where I live; how I survive the dullness of the mundane. I try to make sense of the alluring fog with a pen and paper, hoping black ink will help my heart find a peaceful place to land on the page.
A.P. Bastian 