Dreams are coy creatures.

I'm headed to Delphi in an hour or so to see my mother in one grief and my friend in another. I'm not sure I can handle all of it - or any of it - but I think it's within my responsibility to try.

Last night I had a dream I was on a moped of some sort driving through the country trying to find my way home. With every hill I wheeled over, I felt closer, confident I was on the right path. Each time a building came into view, it comforted me with familiarity until I realized it wasn't one I'd seen before. When I pulled up for gas and gatorade, the girl at the counter of the white clapboard station tried to help and console me. More strangers appeared, having stopped along their own known paths, and attempted to provide directions. They knew where they were going and they recognized the importance of it, sympathized with me in my disillusion. My body, even in sleep, took on the discomfort of masking fear by projecting confidence, covering up reddening cheeks with a bandana, as I remounted my shaky bike with shaky hands. The strangers huddled together to watch me leave, and I could sense their uncertainty with the path I'd chosen, and I knew they could just as surely sense mine.

It's a reoccuring dream, and I always wake up before it reveals where I finally arrive. I hate to see it as this, but I've known for a long time that dreams are witty, coy creatures. I know the dream is toying with me, taunting me with the truth of how I feel: that I am at a loss - with who I am, with what I have, and with where I'm going.