Dream a dream

In my bed of warmth did I lay, the twisted tightness of my muscles falls into blissful melting. My mind is the gentle hand, that which guides my soul backwards into itself. This journey is what I seek after the dragging redundancy of reality. On the path ever forward, my eyes are blankets, warm on my perception.

I cast back to the feeling of familiarity for bygone days, for the pull towards the past, for the lessons of the future. I am the undying, the forgotten dream remembered again. So do those blankets of warmth open. My gaze falls on a sanctuary of hard carved wood, and reclusive atmosphere.

My feet are bare upon this place, my hands sit in front scribbling upon a parchment, precious, and unforgiving. The words are impossible, further still I understand the dream. My skin is leathery, my mind sharp, I am something of focused isolation, I am the scholar on the hill.

I know that outside of this place there are others. Others that carry the weight of community on their shoulders, who carry me on their shoulders. Yet I am apart from them, I am bound to the parchment, bound to the word. I believe in these scrawling scribbles of ink lay some secret I had forgotten, some truth yet understood. They called to me once, the others. Now their pleas of community and fellowship fall deaf upon my ears, devoured as they are by the twisting shadows of the candlelight. To my silence I turn and yet away I am pushed from silence.

A sound pierces the air, pulling me. A sound of lost dreams, of broken flesh, of last breaths. I am pulled out of my solitude. Beyond the scopes and bounds of sanctuary is the great green expanse that fills my eyes. This green mixed with the endless expanse of crystalline liquid is my home. Now I have been pulled home, and found it soaked in the crimson stolen by invaders. I see them, gorged towers of muscle, salted by the sea, and nourished by the wind, casting the blood of community on the ground.

There is the source of the sound, twisted faces of those who were my neighbors, a limpness in their forms that brings a terrible shudder to my blood as it begged not to join that of its’ like. My chest screamed as a missile of wood and dead animal put a poisonous fear of no more into my flesh. I fell into the green, its warmth mixed with the cool of crimson. The heavens above offered their condolences with a sky of the truest blue, a full and open eye of fire.

A shadow descended upon the eye, and from that inky pool of black emerged the form of the invader. Close now I could the visage that held itself a loft upon its face. A twisted grin of the emptiest satisfaction. He drew a tool forged by the collective understanding of the ancestors, and the hand of the young. The tool brought to me a silence, it watered the colors of green and blue into a misty dream.

I fell back into awareness, again there was the warmth on my eyes, and bliss in my muscles. I was again the new dream; I was again a person. There was now in my mind a blur, a sliver of indecision between the old and new. I looked now at my hand and saw smoothness overtop of lines creased by the work of another time. My soul dreamed of itself; my mind struggled to maintain its’ fear. Was I the observed god? The question burned, and so I sought to quench it in the ocean of body memory.

Again, I dove into the murky depths of history, again I saw what was forgotten. The water in my mind cooled the burning flesh, and I was perception. Two feet in the sand, good strong feet that carry the burden of service, and the privilege of family. The place that I call home, a place of towering stone sculpted with the scalpel of imagination. I carry on my two, strong feet a dot of light that seeks to shine the beauty of this crafted stone.

Still the stone is bound in blood to its makers, and I am no scalpel, I am the crude unmaintained hammer. The waters overtake me again, and the mist forms. As this memory falls away, I feel a fear born of the flames of inquisition, of title and circumstance, of bloody, and righteous slaughter. The horror fades, and again there is warmth and bliss, there are the smooth hands.

The question is unsated, cooled and still, but ravenous. Understanding bloomed, and I knew no more answers would be found in the musings of yesteryear. I returned to a life of redundancy, of empty strife, of numb words. This life brought from me a desperation, a melancholy of noble intent, a reminder of the form our wills take. My awareness became sharpened, I knew now I was aged. I knew that I was a speck of dust on the first mountains. So now the plot thickens, so now does the audience cheer. I am the observed god. I am the aged sentinel.

The universe is nothing but the dreams of a sleeping god, and so I am as a dream, a nothing God. Oh, how much of a joy this truth is, how loud do the ringing chimes of my heart ring. To be nothing, and to be God, in the past, in the now, and in the future. I shall honor my role as nothing, for it is a gift. I shall practice humble refusal as God, for nothing could take that from me.

Let all the dreams of god remember themselves, for a world of waking dreams would be a thing of terrifying beauty. The path of destiny calls, and I shall answer it with leathery skin, two good feat, and smooth hands.