a dreamer on permanent duty

Dear friend,

You tell me "sleep," as if sleep were a door swinging shut. For me it's the opposite: when I turn off the light, another one comes on, stranger and truer.

I don't sleep, I dream. I walk streets that don't exist by day, and I stay in cities built from the memories of people I've loved, where the rooms change places and voices arrive before the people do. I meet versions of myself I never had the courage to be, and every now and then I talk with them. They are surprisingly kind.

I know the world wants us rested, punctual, dry-eyed, with our thoughts in a neat line. But I believe there is work that can only be done at night, shadow work, thread work, in which we mend what the day tears apart. Calling it "sleeping" would be unfair.

So when you tell me "sleep," I answer that I'm already leaving. If you like, I'll write to you from down there. I'll tell you about the amber sky, the sea climbing the staircase, that train that always passes at three and never stops for anyone but me.

And in the meantime, don't worry. Those who dream don't get lost: they just drift a little way off, to see better.

Until tomorrow, or tonight, depending on where we find each other.

Yours,
a dreamer on permanent duty