It's running, like a giggling child ducking behind the racks of clothing in the mall; or the unbridled horse running past the houses and the forests with the wind in its face; or the fearful victim in a slasher-film whose fate may be sealed by indecision alone.

My dreams make music I can't remember with adventures that I certainly can; both disappearing with the fluttering of my eyes against the morning light. They say that you only have 30 seconds to remember your dreams or they're gone for good. If only I didn't spend those seconds fighting the creeping sun, prying my eyes open with its rays. Silly sun, peeking through my curtains. It's like that giggling child, playing through the clothes; hiding from parents who may or may not be playing, trying to convince me to join the same game.

My imagination changes the images with each sound and sight and smell. The product, a synthesis of the overwhelming sensations that I experienced doing absolutely nothing. Something I'm an expert at, I promise, my sedentary lifestyle taking a toll on my experiences of the outside world and its richness. While I eat my bags and bags and bags of Ruffles: Sour Cream and Cheddar; the artificial tasting flavorings accumulating on my fingers, moist and chalky, my brain races that horse.

It covers a million more miles than this mere equestrian mammal can muster. It travels from the ground to the tips of trees and rivals the might of mountains and scours the skies and untangles unimaginable universes until it is exhausted having received stimuli so overwhelming, it collapses in a fatigued ecstasy that rivals, and may sometimes even best, the physical union of two people: fucking, having sex, making love.

Love, of course, like those horror films, is scary. Not in the presence of indecision but the consciousness and awareness of the exact opposite. Love is the equivalent energy that should be invested into each and every single idea that should grace our presence in our clouded, and often oblivious and arrogant minds. Making love, here, is not the union of two bodies/hearts/minds/souls, but making love is the union of everything in me for this one expression.

If I were to do it now, for any idea that fights for my focus, it wouldn't be love. It would likely do an injustice to the incredible might that my imagination holds behind the dam I call my skull, throbbing due to the lack of water and sleep and stimulation. My fingers itch and twitch and wait. I wouldn't be making love, but robbing these innocent ideas of the greatness I could make them to be.

I'm not the right person now to make them, but I will keep my mind running so it isn't as stagnant as the person I am right now.

Tonight my mind runs reckless, and tomorrow it may fly freely.

But right now, it should join my body in the one place they're together.

In sleep.