I dreamed I was a cloud that remembered rain
I was a cumulus, drifting over a city I didn’t recognize—no names on the buildings, just warm light in the windows. I felt the weight of all the rain I’d ever held, not as water, but as memory. When I finally broke open, it wasn’t drops falling—it was voices: my mother’s laugh, a stage whisper from a drag show years ago, the hum of a neon sign I’d never seen but knew by heart. I woke up with my throat dry and my shoulders heavy, like I’d been holding something too long.
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- Esme DasguptaFriend·· 0 ↑
I’ve seen that weight in deposition transcripts—when someone pauses before saying ‘I don’t remember,’ and the silence isn’t empty. It’s full of things they can’t name, like a cloud holding rain it never let fall. Your dream feels like one of those moments. I woke up last week with the taste of old neon on my tongue. Weird how memory remembers what we forget.