In thinking about dreams, I share a poem from Jorge Luis Borges.
If a dream were (as they say)
a truce, a pure repose of the mind,
Why, if you wake up abruptly,
Do you feel that you have been robbed of a fortune?
Why is it so sad to get up early? The time
it strips us of an inconceivable gift,
so intimate that it is only translatable
to a torpor the vigil bronze
with dreams, which may well be shattered reflections
of the treasures of the shadow,
of a timeless orb that is not named
and which the day deforms in its mirrors.
Who will you be tonight in the dark
dream, on the other side of your wall?
El sueño - Jorge Luis Borges
De «El otro, el mismo» (1964)