In my dreams I am always good enough.
I don’t know what I’m doing or where I’m headed in these dreams, but I don’t think that really matters. I’ve learned when it comes to things like this to simply leave well-enough alone. I suppose what makes these dreams so terribly inviting is the fact that I don’t feel extraordinary in them in any way. I always feel good enough, which is something I hardly ever feel in my waking life.
I have running dreams. I’m running north on Bowery just below Delancey. I’m always in the left-hand lane pacing along the median at a pretty fair clip, and it’s almost spring but not quite so there’s this build-up in the gutters around and under my feet: tiny pebbles of asphalt and concrete, salt, and filthy, street-blackened ice chunks.
I’m never running too fast or too slow; I’m always just about right.
There’s never any traffic in my dreams; the intersections of the LES are mere ghosts of their real selves. It’s always morning and not awfu…