The silence of the universe is large compared to our lives. We live in emphatic moments of thought, one creation to the next, hoping to string them together like candy beads of time. A crunchy morsel, then gone. We spend our dreaming moments lost in recreation and application towards another place and time, another spacial shift.
In the moments when dreaming is slow to fade, the morning is gray and tiresome. I am lost in the leftover emotions and ragged fragments of guttural feeling from images that linger. In the course of the morning unfolding, a vivid image will crash my thought process and bring my body to a halt. I look around to see if I am found out. I wonder, am I the only one? Of course not…and I look into their eyes, the humans around me. Do they just ignore it or let it wash over them like a bright ray of light between the clouds? I do not. I won’t. I have the insatiable need to explore that other place and see what it brings.
That other place… Where is that place of dreams? Is it the mind? The brain, only? Have we yet found out its location? Why does time move so jagged there? Torn edges of minutes and hours, the images leap from one to another trying to find each other in the continuum of Logical Thought. Reason, mother of Sanity, where is your place in dreamscape? My dreams of late have involved anxious moments with my cats, planes, Russians, and trips around the globe. I have not analyzed them in any detail save to let them spill into the “waking moments.” I contemplate their rich colors and weird scenes until I realize I have sliced them into shreds of single thoughts. Haunted. I look towards the next sleep as if it was an Etch-o-sketch, shaking the sand until the slate is clean. What is my subconscious trying to tell me, anyway?
If thought is an energetic pulse, giving light and heat, and thought can become form, where is the graveyard of our dreams? Do the drums beat slowly, violins moving macabre Saint-Sans in a procession of leftover images? The images I surgically removed become the shadows in my days, bereft of breath in moonlight. We return to our nocturnal graveyards each night, sifting through the pieces to either pick up the threads once more, or to leave fresher kills. I know this because I have picked up the half-complete chimera and spin them to life once more. Memory in dreams is a tenacious thing. It causes us to repeat that which we have not considered. I have reconsidered several oddities time and again.
I. Separated self. Will wander the sleepy days. Until mind and dream and direction merge and sift out the better part of me. The haze within my eyes begs me to consider the memories once more, while words of this life fade into ticking clock-like approach to the day. It is ten more hours until sleep returns, shaking sandy feet free of thick reality.