That dream again.
but your feet are stuck, enmeshed in pavement,
though all of your intent runs in terror.
Demon warriors form themselves in the grey cloud that surrounds you, become denser, full 3-D attack.
You find yourself at war with your pillow, trapped in twisted sheets.
Another damned day to get through looms beyond the dream-storm tossed bed.
Creature, being, created from singular experience cocooned in dreaming.
Meditating, sitting, silent, still, watching metaphoric artfilm of revealed
truth waft like oracular smoke over beauty of this deep-blue pond contained
in floating ice offset by fog-faded mountain awareness.
Those dreams, those dreams, to live only there
where it all makes nonsense that feels so inevitable.
Stories unencumbered by beginnings, by logical progression, by
boundaries, yet pure and strong as sacred text.
That meat-suit we use for interface, to find and absorb sustenance,
input that makes us dependent on a scientifically defined world,
magically transcended, hours transformed outside of measurement,
Even those horrific, catastrophic images that angrily cast you back
into a waking sweat and terror, even they are breakthrough respite,
catharsis to contain, secure, untenable memories, fears.
Immerse with your story’s most salient themes.
Dream places connected in hyper-clear intensity
Lightning storm, steep stone climb from a college holiday
fair far below.
Agitated, observing, moving fluidly in the multi-tiered library.
So much to take in, be drawn into, imaginary conversations with
bright-labeled books. The library like a horror movie medieval tower,
fearsome. Those snow-robed mountains, forests, royal Guard,
calling so softly, so forcefully, Sirening in, holding
Hard hills of snow become Summer fountain festivals
on opium fields, sickly sweet and sticky bun bewitching,
that cloying ecstasy you never want to leave.
Puissant, what drugs want to promise. Free theater customed
to a singular crowd. Instant, hologrammatic slice of eternity.
Perhaps a gift, brief respite from agonized responsibilities.
Respite from cold, pain, everyday injuries of innumerable mites
infected with pestilence, endless war.
Who we are in dreams, unobserved for critique,
pictures imbued with emotional sensation speaking
directly to our most private desires.
To live in dreamtime, free of censoring reality,
what would that mean?
Immersed in sharp colors, sensual, deeply felt geometries. Circus
fools, acrobat costumes, hidden rivers along highways thicketed in
mystically perfumed foliage. Scenes never seen in waking life, yet
perennially home, in dreamtime.
In the innocence of dreamtime, what have you seen?
Tell me your dreams.