Life is but a Dream

Sometimes when I sit down to write, it’s like a door opens to my imagination and in walks Fleegle, chatting away about the things he chats about, and during the time that I’m writing, I’m convinced the words I’m hearing in my head and putting down on paper are what Fleegle would say if he actually did speak. It’s almost like automatic writing, channeling Fleegle’s higher source, and if Fleegle heard me say that he’d be searching the sky for a winged dog that looked like him.

Then when I’m done writing, it’s as if Fleegle has finished what he has to say for the session, shuts up and leaves, and I sit there sensing a mental emptiness similar to loneliness. I wonder where the imagination comes from. In a dream, just because we wake up doesn’t mean the characters in our dream don’t continue on, waiting for our return, ready to catch us up once we get back.

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