DREAMS
IN dreams we cast our fetters, freely range, escape the insistent ticking and the change that disappoints and violates our nature forced in the mask of conscience-moulded feature. So we leap gates of syllogistic reason the one, two, three—the sequence of the season. For human mind is not of such compound, and time, if not unknown, is not the wound timepiece but rather time disrupted by shock, the current varied, interrupted. . .
Here dead and living mix, we hear their message (thus far immortal), glimpse the projected image, find our false selves revealed or newly stated, explore discarded moments or the awaited that plague or thrill, and sometimes catch the warning of friendly shadows not dispelled by morning, or see perhaps among grey tones of night a mad charade—yet strangely apposite— shaped to a pattern which our memory haunting betrays the secret wakeful life was wanting.
W. J. STRACHAN.
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