The ordeal of undeserved grace

Dream breaths weigh out even if the scale seems broken.

But it’s not as if waking to erasure makes easier the bearing of frustration that comes with the jolt back into this life. Let’s just say it: having just the last scene of a dream on the tip of the tongue, and then trying to describe it, and cognitively coming to, as though from a fainting spell, as the words come into the tighter focus of an expressed thought, is a kind of exquisite and dutiful futility, in that the remainder of what happened immediately prior - the thread of the dream - always goes to wisps of smoke. You hear me, don’t you? You can pick up what I am putting down about not being able ever to pick up what the dream put down?

Or maybe it’s just having too many layers to pass through to get to bedrock of what hasn’t ever happened, but somehow did. And still the effort to adduce it plays out like a spinning top that was flung out from the exhaled space of that steady sleeping breath.

Another angle: you can’t complete the grind until you break contact, and then again it’s not really pulled off until you land.