“And it is on this very day of an unnamed wave in the month of May that I begin my journey toward an unknown bay. Now the difference between this journey and the great quests of the likes of say Don Quixote or Ulysses is that neither you nor I have a single hintling towards its destination. Like the great beasts of the sea, we just float along aimlessly like a few measly salmon caught in an unholy tide toward a land of magic and mystery. Hello, my name is James Anybody, and I want to die.” – James Anybody
The horrifying moments of drift between waking and slumber; silent screams. Your thoughts grow diffuse and you leave the waking world only to arrive in the world of dreams.
I find myself in a familiar car occupied by creatures with human bodies headed by unfamiliar faces. The car is familiar, though unremarkable in composition and grapheme; a car – nothing more, nothing less.
The countenances are (remarkably) more indistinct than the physiques and we’re headed on a road toward a destination – unknown (Calabria?).
I feel comforted by this lack of agency – but what is to distinguish my waking life from the world of my dreams?
Here I am – in my natural state; I just woke up from a sideways sleep. Blue moon passing on a shallow morning. On the medleys of days lost, I perfumed my inhibitions as ghosts of higher order, blinding.
I sit amidst a dark brown haze, the muddy phase pulsates as my eyes adjust to my brain, and my brain adjusts to the darkness.
This room is of dark brown temperament, I wipe a frown off my face while clutching a taste of lemon, sucking on – I begin to yawn and reverberate.
I investigate the clock on the wall and see that it indicates a time of 30 past the hour of 5 in the morning, I internally respond by thinking of a warning, warning in a dream full of fire and ice – I ponder upon paradise.
I hear a knock upon the door and I wonder who is tap, tap, tapping at my
chamber bottom floor.
I trudge through the abyss – wade through rambling toward my destiny.
“Good fences make good neighbors”, I often contemplate upon this manner of idiomatic prescription. Words spoken silently. Ideas spoken through hushed tones.
I open the door.
I return to a sleepless dream while supine and omni-cognizant, master of the universe.
I then wonder who could be knocking at half past five in the morning – then scold myself for knowing yet not articulating that it is now later than 5 and a half, as time is clearly past. Another halfway thought.
Another knock – my heart palpitates as if call and response.
I re-tread my former path and find myself at the familiar destination.
I’m erected by anticipation and mirth, tumescent with the prospect of adventure.
Again – darkness.
I set myself in reverse. Unsettled.
I turn and find myself face to face with my own reflection.
“Too much empathy could be dangerous, your heart might stop” – Margaret Atwood
I awake in a daze and I’m trapped in a box of…adequate size.
Was this my destination or my inception?
Time to reason my way out.
“Dreaming of that face again. It’s bright and blue and shimmering” – Maynard James Keenan
The walls of this room form a cube; I am in the center.
I stare at the blank door as it reflects my expression.
I stare unblinking as my eyes begin the burn.
The door opens and one of the same nondescript characters of my hitherto dreams stares directly into my soul, my reflection.
He speaks directly into my mind.
My thoughts are his thoughts and vice versa.
Ideas flow naturally without the guile of articulators.
Images on fire and ideas of flight.
* Ground floor *