On good nights, the inside of my head is like a warm blanket.
A warm blanket made of writhing carnivorous eggplants, mind you, but comfortingly familiar all the same.
While I tend to the lucid dreaming end of the spectrum, even my sharpest, most uncomfortable visions have a peaceful acceptance that makes all the edges lovely and fuzzy.
I may be being chased by a large paintbrush who wants to use me for wallpaper, but I will not be at all surprised to discover that I have suddenly found a lake full of turpentine to foil my pursuer.
Maybe I should stop using myself as an example.
I love the inability to disbelieve in dreams.
I love the complete acceptance of the impossible mechanics of the worlds I inhabit, that moment my heart catches in my throat with a wonder that is almost impossible to duplicate in the real world.
I have no desire to become a Lotus Eater and waste away in visions.
But the knowledge of the unending boundaries that are tragic, funny, delightful inside my head, grants me a joy that sits warmly at the center of my identity.
Sometimes the familiar can be grinding.
There is a joy in not knowing where the next step will take you.
In finding the fuzzy borders of the world inside your head and stepping breathlessly into the unknown.
This week is Fuzzfest! Pull up a chair and a warm blanket and bask in my version of light cheer!
For more dreams, fluffy or otherwise, my fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor, is available here.