Sleep is a state of being in which all of our myriads of ideas and creativity are milling about inside of us, spurting through our dreams trying to make something of themselves, struggling to make an impression so as to be remembered in the morning.
Our innermost thoughts and hopes and dreams and loves. Our intentions and preconceived notions and stereotypes and regrets. Desires, memories, truths and falsehoods. In our sleep, they are all the same, all hold equal value and significance and compete for their chance to make an impression on our consciousness.
Is this a nightly process? Once a month? Or could it be my imagination that I dreamt, and my mind is filling in hours of blank space with my surface thoughts and worries?