A dream is a little fire. Consciousness blows it away, leaving only an ephimeral and tiny column of smoke, something so diaphanous, that it cannot be trapped or kept. Though sometimes the consious mind is able to retain it briefly, and sometimes we are brave enough to put the dream-smoke into a jar. Then it turns into something like an exotic animal, batting its wings, looking at us from behind the glass, spreading pixie dust into the limited space of its prison. It becomes a curiosity, a matter of careful study.
But dreams are not only made of the things hidden in our unconscious mind. They also find meaning and life in the daily events of the days prior to their birth. But as time goes by, not only we are unable to recollect the dream, but we also forget how life was like when we dreamed. Thus, when we go back to our cabinet full of bell jars containing lively oniric beasts, we only find empty exoskeletons and dried skins stretched over static bones. Our fantastic zoo has turned into the slightly creepy collection of a taxidermist or an entomologist.
Yet, it sometimes occurs that we find an old, forgotten journal, a brief note inside a book -- a clue to the past and to the dream as well. And most wondefully, it sometimes happens that along with this material witness of days past, comes a cascade of memories, of sounds and sensations of a time that appears so far away, that we are tempted to think our memories are form a previous life. This sudden memories act as an elixir for our disected reveries. The memories replenish the empty carapaces forgotten in they displays. They come to life again, they sparkle and glide. We can then realize that, yes, it's true that time and oblivion once despoiled our dreams of their livelyness, but time has also given back something in return. Because the dreams and the memories now shine with a light they did not possess before -- they shine with the light of comprehension.