Tuesday, October 3, 2006

   Each river seamlessly winding
Each river seamlessly winding
Through the shadows of your mind,
This life is daily grinding
You
To the dust you’ll leave behind.

I awake. I survey the dream and the real. The dew wafts perilously off my window into the herb garden floating miles away. The sound of the alarm turning to an angry reverberation, I bounce my fist on the snooze button again. The road is full of mist… a dark figure looms ahead… the alarm… my fist… falling into a dark river, streetlights quiver and then are focused into a room with popping fluorescent light. I turn to my left asking the man staring casually at my right, “What are we doing here?”
“Klobady duo ma furor. This is not your dream.” He replied grinning whilst tapping his watch.
I’m late, scrambling out of bed, heading for the kettle to make coffee.
Rule one, learnt early in life, never, and I mean NEVER, leave home before coffee, it’ll ruin your day, even if you’re late…
Rule two, or more of an anecdote from last night. Teachers seem a whole lot smaller when found in a bar late on Friday nights, even if they do beat your ass at pool.
This may sound like a meandering waffle, but there is no syrup in its crevices, like a point to this story, or life even. Is not life a series of uninterrupted memories and thoughts constantly linking the physical to the dream world? Bang, did I just die there, thunder, or dynamite.

What is a man if he has lost his dreams, or worse found them shattered on the tiled floor of someone else’s dream.
You wake, but never sleep. The dream, the real, they blend. Nothing means many things and everything means nothing. The damp road glistens in the black tar of night shimmering, footsteps beat like a pre born baby’s heart in a sonogram, footsteps ever trudging the damp and the dry, the solid and the hollow. Some times the sky speaks, some do not hear it, some do not understand, and others don’t even know there is a voice. I am a vapor passing through; time is none linear as it passes through these dark rivers. The dark rivers flow, and I must see them to the sea.
The room is night again the street lights float by like a moonlit sonata for the eyes.
Where are we all going, some aware some unaware, some don’t even care, but we’re heading for the murkiness, the mist? He looms closer. Is he fear, is he death?
I open the blind of my hotel window, and the sky is noxious, the man still lurks, but now his face…
Burning… burning!
Typewriters tick away nervously as I enter the office. These tickers should have a right of passage through the rift of time being able to defy the law of relativity by saying meaningless crud faster the a spoken word. I type a letter at a time, just to annoy my employers. The dream lingers, the darkness has descended in form, shadow, and I am swept down deep. “I have mail?”
“Time flows differently in motion, want to see.”
What the…
Driving again, I am haunted by the ghostly stream of memory. The man in the mist…
He is here.



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