Our Words Were Told, Our Songs Were Sung

We were pretty much knotted together in the womb, but my twin sister and I have never had the same dreams. Hers are like acid trips or hyper-real arthouse films, and usually at the end of them she watches herself die some blissful, technicolor death, or else crawls up through a hole in into her own bed and watches herself wake before waking acutally. I have dreams about ordinary things. Really ordinary things: last night, my friends and I had lunch at Arby's and talked about the election.

You'd think there'd be some communal wavelength between our brain patterns, like in those pop neuroscience articles or on the Disney Channel. Our fucking freckles match--you'd think I'd have at least a dose of whatever psychotropic fluid she managed to absorb there in the womb. But it has always been this way. She always had to take the bottom bunk growing up because she would sob in her sleep, would twist herself up in her Green Lantern sheets and writhe out of bed because she'd dreamed she was trapped in a cocoon of lava at the center of the goddamned earth. Meanwhile, I wake up every morning and wash my hair, after just dreaming of washing my hair, in perfect soundless black and white. Is it so weird of me that I envy her: that I think of sleep as a narrowing tunnel, and sometimes I wish there were something bright and shifting at the end of it, something terrifying, to give me pause?