I'm awake, I'm asleep, I fluctuate, I have long dreams of mysterious landscapes, dreaming-awake adventures in majestic valleys and sci-fi cities, ascending endless staircases and fire escapes, climbing up mountains, wandering into the deep dark forests of my mind, and why now? Why is it now that they appear visual and concrete and beautiful in front of my sleep-awake eyes, when I've wandered blind, stumbling and falling, in them for so long?

I've lost something and found something, I feel it like a box feels heavy in my hands, there is something inside but what?

What was lost? Myself. What was found? Myself. What was myself? Wait, wait, don't go away until I find out.

I feel like I should forget people and life and commitments and distance myself from everything and face that lost-and-found self and make art. I've faced my inner landscapes, both in dreams and awake, and now - who is the person with her feet on that moss, her arms scratched by that stone wall?

I had an exhausting dream about England last night.