Bridge in Fog

I have always been fascinated by dreams. Where do they come from? How do they develop? What meaning, if any, do they contain? Not long ago, I took a photograph of the Rip van Winkle bridge disappearing into a fog bank. It occurred to me that a dream is like that; the mind disappears in the mist and shapes and forms get distorted. A dream is a mirror image of reality on some level. My dreams are populated with people I know and on rare occasions, by creatures from the darkest depths of my id. Sometimes I remember them in great detail. More often only an uneasy feeling remains. I don't know how to interpret my dreams and I'm not sure I really want to learn. There are instances when I can connect a dream to some final thought as I drifted off to sleep. But it is the element of surprise that is more intriguing to me! Where did that come from? As disconcerting as they can sometimes be, I know one thing for sure; if I'm still dreaming I'm still alive, and that's a good thing! Here is my Bridge in Fog in 4 parts:

I. Each night we step out on the bridge of our mind.

Our steps are heavy from the weight of the day.

Vignettes of images and sounds;

of things we said or did,

or wished we had or had not.

We drop them like markers as we journey to the other side.

Waking moments as hard as steel.

They propel us to the other side,

and will guide us upon our return.

The bridge is shrouded in fog

and I wonder what awaits me.

 II. The bridge spans the waters of my mind.

As I slip away with each step,

one reality ends and another begins.

The fog swirls and lifts and forms are revealed,

both strange and familiar.

What do I see?

What is? What will be?

What is me?

Where the hard truths come to light!

III. On the bridge I'm an observer of me

in a new dimension of self.

I can see and I can feel!

I can fly and sometimes fall!

I search but never find!

I am chased but never caught!

I experience joy and I know terror!

And it all seems so real except...

I never get to the end.

The forms shake me and wake me.

And that makes me sad and sometimes glad.

The bridge, so long in crossing,

where my demons hide,

where my desires thirst,

is recrossed in an instant.

And I am awake in the night.

IV. I live on both sides of the bridge in fog.

And which is more real?

Each time I cross I leave something behind,

where my soul is revealed,

where my mind wanders free.

I am somehow different if ever so slightly.

As I spend my day preparing to cross again.