In the dream, time was not a river but a wall, a glossy surface streaked with vertical bands of deep teal and absolute black against a flowing blue eternity. My memories were not stories but textures upon this wall. A burst of joy left large, chaotic splatters of vibrant orange. A sharp pain etched a thin, deep scratch into the surface, a wound that never healed. Some moments were nearly lost, becoming transparent smears, ghosts of what they once were, while a single, perfect recollection shone as a tiny speck of pure gold, a defiant point of light in the vast, abstract landscape of my mind.
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