Under cover of darkness, veiled in the shadow and mystery of night, a dream came at once to me of a place, a person and a thing. The place I knew did not exist, and the person was a stranger wearing my skin, so I had all but dismissed them. The thing, however, intrigued me. There was an allure to it; a freedom. Imagine, a possession that could give you the freedom you so desire. Many think they are free, but truthfully they are imprisoned most of all. Many small freedoms can be given up without much notice before you will feel a great loss, and so, many will give these away. But imagine a thing that would take them all back, in but a blink of times eye. How far would you chase this thing to retrieve those lost freedoms? Would you become someone else to retrieve who you once were? Would you pursue a place that you were certain did not exist? Do you believe you could reach your destination and not lose your sanity and identity along the way? I am a rational man, but I feel that to get where I am going I must be irrational.
January 10, 2013 | Categories: Uncategorized | Tags: a dream awake, dream, dreaming, dreams, freedom, identity, life after social media, lifeaftersocialmedia, mystery, shadow, tarot, the man, the spire, the thing, the tower, walrus | Leave a comment
I want to chase the dream; to see the hills and the trees echo something beautiful; to see the face when I close my eyes, and embrace it completely. I hope the dream is real, and I hope the dream knows I am there. But how can I know without letting loose of everything and racing after it? Pray the sun doesn’t burn away the hills and the trees, evaporating the mist and disintegrating the dream. Let the light envelop and heighten everything I am and everything I want.
Slept for 5 minutes; spent a week in the city. It feels like I ran a lifetime, only now to wake up at the edge of the city, standing on the docks. Everything I see is a rich and vibrant black and white. A chattering fills the air like it’s far away; only it’s not the chattering that’s far away, it’s me. Machines are inside out, climbing up the edges of buildings like some mechanical vine. The gears grind because the oil is falling out, but I don’t hear a sound. There are people on the dock, covered in motionless, shimmering oil. They look exhausted and content all at the same time. They open their mouths and their teeth are black, but not because of the oil. When they speak, everything is grit, oscillation and sine waves. The sound grinds into my ear drums and down the sides of my neck. I can feel it in my spine. I hear sand pouring out of their mouths, but my eyes cant see it. Occasionally I see a glimpse of something shining in their eyes, only to be quickly replaced by the oil endlessly flowing over their eyes and back into their eye sockets. When I see it, I see gold. Egyptian gold. The old gold of the gods. Something I shouldn’t have seen. But it’s gone before I can even react. The ocean crashes behind them, seething and frothing. The skies are overcast and emotionless. Everything gets under my skin, but it’s calming and I cant figure out why. For some reason, whenever I’m here, I feel like I’m under the knife. I like it here, though, and I know I’ll be back. I never come by choice, something is always bringing me, but I don’t put up a fight. I know sooner or later, they’ll say what they need to say. One way or another, I’ll get the message. For now, I just wonder. So it goes.
Things go on like they always do. Be awake and live and let the dreamers sleep. Shades of grey shift through the world of the living, but when you cease to live, everything is black and white.
Almost the whole world had become despondent husks after unknowingly ingesting some sort of toxin. For reasons unknown to those affected, energy levels and virility would rise. Spirits and hopes were returning to those who had lost their way at some point. To feel better than they ever have in their life, and be thrilled to just exist, it seemed like a wave of peace was washing over the world. But slowly things started to change. It’s hard to track an origin or patient zero, as the toxin simply went unnoticed for years. No one can seem to remember exactly when a general consensus was reached that something was terribly wrong, and was only going to get worse, but it seems all have their own story of how it began for them. Watching the elderly regain their youth, only to have their entire life stripped from them. Active and intrigued children, with a world ahead of them, just losing interest in everything and simply laying motionless all day. Parents no longer caring about their children, neglecting to feed them (and eventually themselves). I think the early days were the hardest for most people. We had all grown up around this idea that when the apocalypse finally came, it would be some great wave of destruction followed by years of silence and loneliness. For us, it was a slow killer, creeping up on us. So blinded were we by the overwhelming sense of positive change in the world, that we just never saw it coming. And that’s how it went; passing through the population like some unseen pickpocket swimming amongst us in a crowd.
They were all very much alive, in the clinical sense of the word, but they were more skin and bone than they were human. Lifeless, soulless chunks of meat that simply could not survive without the help of others…and we helped, we all did. Groups were formed to routinely sweep through buildings to ensure there were not any newly affected. Massive care clinics were set up to look after the affected. Most had a hard time finding something to call them. They weren’t sick, per Se. The most common problems among them were afflictions like bed sores, which could appear anywhere, depending on where they were and what they were doing when they stopped. They didn’t seem to have any choice in the matter and they seemed to only be getting worse and worse the longer time went on. We all talked about them as if they were in a coma, or in some deep sleep that they might wake up from one day. I suppose it was only a matter of time before we started to affectionately refer to them as Dreamers, much in the same way one refers to a family member dying of cancer as being sick; those with cancer are not sick, they’re dying, but it’s always harder to talk about loved ones in the sense that they will one day be dead. And so the Dreamers dreamed.