Dream

I belong to that category of people who, most of the time, have the impression they do not dream. The rare fragments of dreams that reach my consciousness are soon forgotten: vague, inconsistent, irrelevant.

The Exception

I am sitting in front of the table with the marble top, in the living room at home. I am looking at a drawing made with a ballpoint pen on the squared sheet of an A4 notepad. I look at the drawing with curiosity but also with a certain detachment; the author died a couple of months ago, and I remember having seen him make only sketches with a precise purpose: drafts of diagrams or projects.

It was a doubly incongruous dream. First of all, because my state of mind was infinitely distant from what it was, what it still is today, and what it probably will be in the future, at least as long as I am sufficiently lucid. Secondly, because it seems reasonable to assume that he whom I thought to be the author in the dream would never have even thought of drawing anything like it.

To recap, in case there is a need, on this page you can see the attempt to reproduce a drawing seen in a dream.

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