I woke up today retching.

First hint that you're dreaming is when there are things in your house that you don't remember being there. Rooms like a solarium and tropical plants you've only seen in books or rare botanical specimens.

The leaves were covered with writhing shelled insects that scuttle away at the slightest breath. The kind that hide between forgotten cinder blocks and on the underside of rocks. Each breath taken they would find new places to hide, revealing the unblemished foliage and stems beneath. Seeing isn't always believing and belief doesn't constitute liberation from the deep seated need for thoroughness and proof.

An itch in my mouth alerted me to something strange. Twitching and crawling and squirming between solid enamel and soft palate. Whatever those things that had scattered had escaped and found their way to my mind and tongue. And there was a moment where I considered swallowing, making them disappear and forgotten, dying some unknown death. The same feeling of gritting your teeth and steeling your gut, while all the same unsure of which consequence is preferable. Consequences, all the same.

So I opened my mouth. Let them wriggle from the crushing grip of my still-clenched teeth. Some soured and burst in my mouth, like words held back. Whole cocoons and pupae with their fates undecided, left on shelves, twitching with internal anticipation. And others--from the ones gingerly removed and sometimes spat out in fear--split chrysalises from which new, beautiful things emerged.

Perhaps the imagery and the way I woke up should horrify me. Perhaps I should be disturbed by the distinct and tangible texture, taste and terror; I somehow can't help but feel encouraged by that strange sunlit room on a day that never was.