(in dreams)

They hunt me. My own dreams hunt me.
I am terrified of them, sometimes, so I run. (I don't know what they would do if they caught me.)

They want to be nightmares, they think they are nightmares, alebrijes in the forms of my thoughts, dyed by the fears I don’t even whisper to my eyelids.

Last night I decided to turn the tables, to twist the bed around. Maybe I could hunt my dreams down, and maybe, if I seized them, I could strip them down and find the origin of their unfaithfulness to my unconscious mind.

Who is the dream? Who is the dreamer? I think I am just the dream of my dreams.




The dream of the dreamer who hunts me as I dream of the dreamer.