My mattress is hard. It bends slightly but holds my spine with a stubborn shape that seems to rock me to sleep. My ugly brown sheets dance with the rivers of impressions carved by the pillow pattern on its crust. I’ve never seen its organs, but they never grumble because they feast on sheep. My pillows are thin and cheap, but they match and come in pairs. I drool during naps, but never during sleep, and I can count the stains of my daydreams. They give me directions to midday escapes. My feet hang off the edge and the light in my loft is too heavy to ignore, but my cradle invigorates my eyes and highlights my most intimate thoughts. Vivid flashes of what was, what is, and what will be. They pull my eyes when I rest.
I honestly believe Dejavu is when a past dream unfolds itself the tangible world. A living memory that you can feel with your finger and soul.