The Dream of What Might Be 

The Dream of What Might Be

The Dream of What Might Be came out with the rare sun one day, looking for possibilities. The Dream of What Might Be looked for company, looked outside itself and in places where no one had bothered to look for years; The Dream opened doors sealed with paint, turned over stones cemented in by mud, unwrapped brown packages full of old letters tied with twine that had been secreted away in attics. The Dream of What Might Be said to the Dream of What's Not let's take to hills, let's tear off our clothes, let's yell like heathens and dance like drunken angels; let's go lie down over there for a bit, six minutes, tops. The Dream of What Is came tearing out, needing to see what the ruckus was about. The Dream of What Is and The Dream of What's Not tried to talk sense to the Dream of What Might Be, but the Dream of What Might Be was blown up with magic and nothing could fit there. The two other dreams grew stern, then pale, in the face of the relentless onslaught of impossible suggestions and ridiculous scenarios; they begged, they pleaded but the Dream of What Might Be had no taste for reason, and taking first one, then the other began to sing to them intricate songs, a weaving of sound that dizzied them, until they forgot their own names, and began to believe.