Here we become something. We take a shape that grows out of the darkness of the winter morning as we float from the world of dreams and become solid once more. The dreams fade away into the pillow as our bodies become heavy once more, feeling the warm reality of each other where we touch under heavy blankets that no longer fall away as we fly into dream lands.
There are moments of possibility that lie at the edge of memory like mists. Hints that tantalise as they fade away into forgetfulness of the way back into that dreamland that the alarm tore us from. The fingers of our minds reach out try to grasp, take hold, of those insubstantial wisps, but the very act of reaching dissipates them. We are left holding nothing but the vague memory of a place where there were always beaches to walk along on fine summer mornings and the unspoken promise of how easy it would be to shrug off our day-to-day lives along with our clothes as we find that welcoming soft grass on some headland that looks out over an endless sea of the possible.
That dream world is gone now though as the day drags us out to face it. We glance back though at that dim outline of the pillow as we leave the bedroom, hoping to see our dreams there waiting for when we return.