"Dreams are the answers to questions we do not yet know how to ask." -- David Duchovny as Fox Mulder, X-Files.
I've always enjoyed quoting the X-Files, just ask any one of my literature, history, or philosophy teachers. The above is a particular favorite, along with the one about young Jimmy the Death Fetishist and, of course, the one about drawstring pants. At the moment I mention dreams instead of mothmen because the other night I enjoyed one that was surpassed in its beauty only in the duration of its effect upon my mood and thoughts.
Along with any accounting of a dream there comes an inevitable risk of losing one's audience in a vast simmering cauldron of LSD-based imagery of fantastical collisions of dimensional realities: one had six feet and went to the bank while swimming down main street only to discover the evil porcupine from last night's campfire hot-dog roast on Mars was dressed up as a teller and looked an awful lot like your grandmother. As fun as such a literary attempt would be, I'm going to forgo that road in favor of describing how the said dream made me feel the morning after. I'm also going to forgo any details other than the fact that it involved myself of no particular alteration, someone else of no particular concern, and a moment extraordinary to no particular degree. Mr. Mulder can answer any further questions.
When I awoke, I felt as if I were the sky itself: an endless stretch of serenity measured only by soaring beings and spectral frolicings. I felt as if I had been happy for as long as the old earth has been alive, and as fresh as it has ever been even after the most torrential downpour. I felt as if my soul was a brilliant star that was beginning to cast its rays to the outermost corners of the universe. I felt in love.
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