There’s a moment just before sleep when the world slips off like a robe—heavy, clinging, and familiar. You’re not dreaming yet. But you’re no longer quite awake. Time stutters. The room exhales. Your body begins to forget its obligations. This is the first drift, the beginning of our unwinding.

We don’t rush toward dreams, but rather fold toward them, bending gently, like paper softening in water. And when we arrive, it’s never through a door—it’s through unraveling, through letting the spool go loose.

Dreams are not progress. They don’t build nor resolve. They spiral and loop, shimmering for a precious moment and vanish before comprehension can trap them. And yet—this is where we so often live. Not in the act of making, but in the imagined gallery. Not in the relationship, but in the fantasy of what it might someday mean. Not in the daylight, but in the golden, crumbling edge of sleep.

We unwind toward dreams because they allow us to disassemble without guilt. They allow us to scatter the pieces without fearing who will sweep them up. In a dream, the self becomes vapor. In ambition, it becomes scaffolding. In longing—it becomes threadbare, lovely, and lost.

Artists—true dreamers—are not always creators. Sometimes we’re just spinners, spinning the same longing into new shapes, hoping one will finally hold. Sometimes we make just enough to delay the collapse. Sometimes we don’t make, at all. Because when you’re dreaming… you don’t have to finish the novel. You don’t have to publish the poem. You don’t have to clean the brushes, or define the thesis, or explain your need to anyone.

Dreaming gives you permission to become fog. When the world is concrete and jagged, that fog is so sweet, But what happens when dreaming becomes living? What happens when every act of ambition is really just a longing to drift further from the present?

Entropy isn’t always destruction. Sometimes it’s just surrender, a quiet return to thread, to breath, to softness. It’s an opportunity to reclaim the pieces of yourself that don’t want to hold shape anymore. Maybe that’s not failure. Maybe that’s holy.

To unwind isn’t to escape. It’s to reveal the quiet chaos we’ve been holding still. Those dreams to which we unwind are not detours. They’re the map. We just have to learn how to read it.