she sold her love to the morning light,

by Rachel Lynch in

Summer love warrior, all fired up. there is not enough heat out there to break my soul. Lately it's become less about the show and more about the experience. Although I feel they are meant to be just for me, I wish you could see the vivid imagery that is my dreams. These are not a dime a dozen, these are ravenous colors that wake me at five and pull me back into slumber as the red sun rises. Sometimes our dreams run in circles, but mine have been flowing forward with great fluidity. I mean this in the way that we see a color progress, the way it becomes something more than it really is, the way it's shade gives way to other shades, some dark, some light.

I believe these dreams to be a gift, a divine visual indulgence from my maker. My question now is what do I do with them? These dreams of mine. Do I attempt to recreate them? With physical materials, paint, water, solid, preaching to the choir. Do I write of  them in detail? Words are not giving me full freedom but I can't close my eyes to them. The mere thought of their existence pulls me under. This is a morning without a trace of reason. I'm a slave to the unconscious world. I am a dreamer.