It’s Sunday morning and the light’s pouring in from the skylight. It makes stripes across the white linen, so bright it’s hard to sleep again. I want to sleep in. It’s Sunday after all. But I can’t, so I walk to the kitchen, make Vegemite toast for two and come back to bed with toast and coffee. Now I’m flicking through the newspaper in bed.

Wil’s been dreaming for some time now. He’s tossing and turning, but doesn’t seem stressed. He’s on a ride of a dream or something.He’s got his eyes closed firmly and I can see his comfortable. Comfortable to create in the void of early morning dreaming.

I’m feeling half alive, flicking through the paper. I put my thumb on pages to mark them. Carefully tabbing the ones I want to come back to. Waves of frustration come through as I read the headlines that the newspapers seem full of today. Lists, how-to’s and trendy gelato combinations. Maybe I should pick up a book instead.

I’m in the in between space again. Classes have wound up for the year. And wil and I are off soon on holiday. Work has become a little monotonous and I’m fighting back from beginning the next thing. Knowing the next thing is coming swiftly and I need not overwhelm myself. One thing at a time.

Wil’s rolling over now. One eye open then two. I go out of the room, pour a second coffee. He’ll be up soon. I walk back in. Put the things down. Sneak under the covers. And he’s up.



“How’d did you sleep?”


“You looked so happy in your morning dreams.”

“Yeah.” He rolls over. “And now I can’t even remember what happened.”


“Mmmm. Me either.”

“I love the nothingness of sleep. I love sailing in the void.”

“It’s nice isn’t it.”


“I want to stay there forever. Kind of.”

“Kind of.”

He props himself up on the bed. Rubs his eyes.

“But you know I’m quite comfortable with the void. I’m quite comfortable resting in the nothingness.”

He philosophies slowly, calmly.

“I’m sure if it wasn’t nothingness it would be hard to stay asleep.”

“Mmm. It’s funny. Because I suppose in that time we are also doing a lot of creating. A lot of thought processing.”


“Gardening in the mind.”


“Sailing through space.”

“Is that what you were doing?”



“It’s nice though. It’s funny.”

“What’s funny?” He sits up and takes a sip of coffee. I crunch on my cold Vegemite toast. Slip under the covers. He puts his cup down.

“It’s funny how we talk about the American dream. And it’s this thing we come up with, maybe while we’re sleeping. Then we wake up and try and get it.”

“Sure.” I’m tired. He’s suddenly quite awake.

“No but it’s funny how like we all think if we have this dream then we can go out and achieve it. Like we dream something in the nothingness of the night. And then we try and make something tangible of it during the day.”


“Is that what they talk about when they talk about chasing their dreams? No but like really. I mean we believe them. Think of the impact of Gatsby.”

“Did he get what he wanted?”

“I don’t think that really matters. It’s just that people believe they can achieve what they set their mind to.”


“But do we really want gatsby? I think the more I think about it, what I want is quite different to what everyone else wants. I mean. Can I trust what I come up with in the early hours of the morning?”

“I don’t think that’s really what they are talking about when they talk about those kinds of dreams.”

I take another bite of my toast. The light pours in, blinding my eyes. I squint.



“But I do think that thinking about something, talking about something eventually makes us accountable to doing something with it.”

“Maybe that’s where it comes from.”

“I’m not sure.”

I readjust myself with the sheets. It’s warm and the covers are too hot.

“Well I think for me right now I just want to rest. I don’t want to dream up to much right now. I think I’m quite comfortable in the void.”

“Comfortable in the void. Hmm.”

“I mean I want things. I want growth and life and movement and stuff. But I guess I just hope that will come. Or maybe that it will self create as I rest.”

“Like dreaming at night?”

“Sure.” I lay back down more comfortably.

“Do you remember a little while ago when we were up on the roof looking at the stars?”


“Well I was reading something the other day that reminded me of our conversation. You know, about locking in our movement to the movement in the universe?”

“I remember.”

“Wait, let me find it.” I shuffle through my books at the bedside table to see where I have folded the page. “It says, ‘It is possible, in deep space, to sail on solar wind. Light, be it particle or wave, has force. You rig a giant sail and go. The secret of seeing is to sail on solar wind.'”

“Mmm. I love that.”

“Me too.”

“It’s like that W H Auden poem. You know that one I love. ‘Who showed the whirlwind how to be an arm, And gardened from the wilderness of space, The sensual properties of one dear face?'”

I twirl my ring around my finger. “Yeah. It is.”

“Comfortable with the void.”

“Comfortable in the void.”

“And dreaming in the void.”

“Yes but also resting.”

“We can worry about reality later.”

“Yeah. But I do want to lock into that movement. That sailing on solar wind.”

“Yeah that’s nice.”

“Okay I’m gonna close my eyes again.”



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