It was one of those dreams. Yes. One of THOSE dreams. One of those which he is never quite sure about. One of those which makes sense but not the way he would like it to. One of those that makes him think about it through the day. One of those which he can't even remember properly. Its essence lodges itself somewhere inside his head. It reminds him of all the things that he really doesn't want to remember. It makes him feel all those emotions that he thought were buried in the past. It is a reflection of all the things he ever wanted to be but only if he was someone else. It's still in his head. Now it's humming a tune that he doesn't know. But then again, he might know it. He is never quite sure of it. It worries him because he cannot quite pin-point that exact memory which creates these shadows in his head. He needs some coffee. He drinks some coffee. He feels better. Light-headed. Now all is quiet. The voices are gone. He is happy.
Writing in third person always gives me that extra sense of security.