Truth in Dreaming

Last night I was restless, waking often all night, checking the clock, and listening for Felix before slipping back under again, and it was subsequently a night for broken dreaming.

At one point, I dreamed I was walking, arms around shoulders and waists, with and old friend. Someone with whom I seldom speak and even more rarely see, but of whom I'm still fond. I said, "The most important friendships are the ones that survive even when we do stupid things."

The friend agreed, and we spoke briefly with detached nostalgia about some of our own stupidities, before departing so that I could go searching for someone I needed to find, needed with the urgency of dreaming, but without real cause.

The dream stayed with me all day, as did the truth of the sentiment.