Gentle and Forlorn

"The brain uses sleep to wash away the waste toxins built up during a hard day's thinking, researchers have shown." -BBC News

     Can a mystery sense the approach of its resolution, the way a beast can sense imminent death, even a beast that has not been possessed and tormented by language and its many selves, all coming together to perish or at least to abandon the beast?

     I think it can. I think I can. A mystery, after all, is only another of those many floating, overlapping selves of language, another I. I know it. It has to die. Or, well, it may not have to, but it can surely sense that it's about to, like the person dreaming the car, despite a tight grip on the wheel, has just cleared the cliff, no grip left. Time to fall.
     And then, either it has and it's gone, crashed, irrecoverable, I suppose, rest in peace and fade from living memory, mystery no more, nothing to see, nothing of interest here, lost forever, a junked car rusting unseen among the invasive species down there clotting the once-pristine, dark canyon, or the person wakes up and thinks, that was only a dream, I was only dreaming, oh what a relief, the mystery still lives, heart pounding, still puzzled, still asking, yes, I see, but why do we dream these dreams?