All my dreams go back to the sea. There could be concrete high rise blocks, but then the seagulls will come flapping in, screeching, and the water will begin lapping up against the side of the building. Of course, it's hard to dream when you've been up 22 hours straight without chemical assistance, but the dream will eventually spread over me like a feather-lined blanket at my grandparents', where the lighthouse used to throw flashes up the wall in a rhythmic fashion as it revolved, the sad eerie moan of the foghorn warning ships at sea. Then you feel the sand between your toes and the water rushing in with a dull roar.
Always back to the sea. Even a falling dream, with the fear and trepidation of dropping like a stone into the abyss, will end with a splash into the water. This is because I am a Scorpio. This is because I wear tattoos up my arms like a fairground wheel owner. Can't you smell the candy floss and hear the chimes of the painted wooden horse rides? I could shuffle the deck and hand you a card. The ace of clubs. The jack of diamonds. And still it would feel like we were entwined in the sand under a pier, deafening wind rushing under the wooden boards. This beach is cold and windswept. The tall grasses on top of the dunes swish and sway. There are World War Two pill boxes to stop the German tanks that never came. My head is like a penny arcade. In these dreams we see ghosts. Dead pets. Old girlfriends. Never-known relatives. When you wake your heart feels heavy as a stone. The mundane reality of manual labor can't shake the heavy apathy, strong as voodoo. So I shake a crow's feather in the smoke. These are not the stories of the factory floor.
There could be crabs in the rock pools. Old bent white-washed branches. Shells and pieces of green bottle worn smooth as a pebble. This is the symbology of my sleep. This is the sound of sleep.