The terror, the sheer and ample terror, of waking from a dream one vaguely recalls meeting during the waking day on a street corner. Such a dream has no ingredient of frightening proportions but its near reality ushers a lacing of fear which others lack in their entirety.And in its recall, I am aware of the starkness of my room standing suspended in the architecture of this world and the world of dreams.This room has housed both my life and the dream I just awoke from. While still quivering from the tell of the dream I am shaken by a thought. My very room, my very life, my dream and my troubled awakening are part of another dream from which someone hasn’t woken up. This is not merely the intense fever of awakening or aloneness in the room kept company only by the half-unhinged noise of the window.Its compelling truth adrenalises me into rooted seatedness on my bed. Not a muscle trembles out of turn from the dreamer’s dream where I sit. I find no way to convince myself that I am not vassal to the mechanics of dreams and the visceral actions of some sleeping soul.In neither accepting or rejecting it, there is peace and a calm which makes inaction the most righteous action.Sitting on my bed, I don’t stop my perspiration for I don’t have the script to the other’s dream. I stare at the wall in front of me.Even a wall has so much to reveal when approached with such attention albeit a coerced devotion. In slowly learning my wall, I tire.And slowly that wall ripples its way under me, as per the script, and my muscles receive the cues they had feared to take all this while.I swim back into my previously undone sleep with a a fleeting fear of the resumption of that dream. And I hear a yawn or I yawn in the dream.