I'll just say this up front: I'm thinking out loud; not fishing . . .
In my conscious hours I am capable enough of writing a humorous little essay. But in my dreams . . .
I'm not talking about my daydreams, I mean my actual nighttime asleep dreams. In my dreams I can, and do, write anything and everything.
In sleep, I am the author of poetry so full of pathos it would make you question the very life you live. And songs meaningful and true such as they could be sung by the likes of Bono or any one of the angst-ridden young indies.
In dreams, I weave full length novels. My characters are real and the stories are complicated and alive.
And then I wake up and can't remember any of it. I ache to conjure even a single line of my rich slumber verse. But it all drifts back to the depths and I rise up through the layers to surface into waking life.
And I'm left with the capacity to pen the ButtFest trilogy or a chocolate orgasm. But in my dreams . . .