'I hear a mother who speaks to her baby in a language she does not understand. I know
the mother waits for the baby to grow old. The baby is my mother. This is a dream'.
Kay McKenzie Cooke
Dreams are weird, but I do like the way they mess with time.
The above lines from a longer poem try to convey the elasticity of dreams - the unique way they can seamlessly flow backwards and forwards between what in real life is fixed.
The dreamer wakes to a world that has not shifted, but knowing what it would feel like if it had.
It is only a few hours before the dream is forgotten. Unless of course the dreamer has written down the dream in an attempt - usually vain - to try and capture the feeling of discombobulation that it has caused.