i wrote to remember

the morning reflected it, and i certainly remember dreaming it, that the outsides of the spheres were like miniature globes floating in space, though confined like a bedroom, but with stars around the walls and on the ceiling and the floor, everywhere you could see. and the television screens hung down from nothing. the professors and news people talked about the problems they were having, the issues that arose from trying to understand and control “metaquasars” and “hypnogravity” and “dynamic range ballistics” - the ideas that they had in regards to hyper-space travel, intersecting wormholes and the like - i couldn’t quite comprehend. my attention was focused on the immediate problem of keeping the two halves of the sphere from connecting to each other. that problem, of course, became an immediate disaster, however inevitable, and the two pieces game together. the faux ceilings and earth faded into the space and where there was matter was nothing but space. a metallic rectangle floated out ahead of me but trying to “fly” toward it proved to be a greater problem than keeping the two halves apart. it’s very near impossible to get any sort of grip or traction or sense of direction towards anything in deep space. will is your only weapon, your only means of doing. it took all i had to make it to the platform and still maintain my grip on the orb. meanwhile i had figured the solution to this problem - destroy the orb and reset space back to a normal environment, maybe return the earth to where it belongs, at least anything to resemble that. but i had made it to the platform. that was a start. and so i tried to stand on the wobbling piece of substance, trying to steady myself under the weightlessness of an empty void, position myself in a way to give me the best opportunity to destroy the orb. and then there was another metal thing, a shelf that had grown out from a wall in the side of the original piece of metal. things becoming more things. getting bigger. so i took the opportunity. smashed the metal sphere with my hand. shattered it into tiny molecules. the earth came back. the lights came back. the monitors came back. as if nothing ever happened. all reset. and in the inside of the sphere, a tiny wire, like a plug, with a light on the end. i pulled it out from its place and swung it above my head, lassoed a metal railing on the opposite side of the field, and swung down to the stars below me.

there were these two men

there are no more dreams.
no? how come?
i don't know.
you have no idea?
it's just...i don't know. i think there's no hope in it. in dreaming.
that's a heavy notion, don't you think?
not really. i mean, look around us. i don't think people dream like they used to.
and why do you say that?
because you can see the hopelessness in their eyes. in their movements. in their sad faces. i think they go to sleep with the intention of not dreaming.
i see.
because you always wake up in the end, and then you're back to the real.
and that's why you don't dream anymore?
it's not that i don't dream.
no?
no. it's like there's an open space and when i close my eyes i see this vast plane. it's dark, or sometimes it's just light. but there's nothing there. no castles. no stars. no people. just space. i dream in an empty void.
because?
because i don't know. hell!
let's work at it.
maybe it's because my dreams stopped coming true.
is that it?
i don't know. i don't know why i said that. it's not like they ever really did, you know. as a kid, though, i think there was a greater possibility for them to, you know?
and now?
and now, well, i guess those hopes and dreams are fleeting faster and faster the older i get. i see the doors closing. the missed opportunities. the chances that were never taken.
but you're not that old, you know. people live a long time now, these days.
but i feel old. i feel...wasted.
like how?
like i missed out on something. and my mind knows it. and my dreams, or lack of, reflect it.
you know, there's always a chance to take a chance. so long as you can breathe, you can gamble. you can do that which you dream of, or maybe used to, in your case. you can still do that.
i guess i just feel i've already overplayed my hand, you know.
frankly, that's bullshit. i am here. you see me, no?
yeah.
so what's to stop you from, say, going outside and doing something you've never done before?
my job, for one.
you know, you only have one life. but in that one precious shot at living you have an endless amount of opportunities to make something happen. to go out and learn to sail, to talk to a beautiful girl, to carve your name into a statue, to be something, to be happy, to take chances. to dream.

"i figure it's more like dreaming..."

"...slipping away for a spell. being someplace not in the current. truth be told, i'm in no hurry to be saddled with such knowledge. it's not quite priority one. no, sir. but that's not to say we don't think about it. gamble it's something most not care to admit, figure it's more of the private nature. personal. but we do it. 'cause maybe sometimes it's easier, or hastier, or something of the sort. or maybe just too mysterious to leave be. every one person has their own conviction. myself, like i said, i figure it's something like dreaming. and i stir about, keep on going, like maybe nothing really happened. but it's all up here, playing out, the way you conjure it does. but i fancy it a secret, best saved for the end."

cyclical and sterile and credulous, all the same

i gutted fish in kathmandu, drinking wine and sunlight, listening to the wind make love to the ocean. higher than the stepchild of everest and k2, slipping between the past and present and future and everything between. yes, even between that. lights never more brilliant. sounds never more lucid. dreams never more real. i tell you it was something feral. that's for certain.

beggars find themselves drooling at the sight of oncoming traffic, listening for the sound of music or mouths pouring through a cracked window, staring blank, clean and empty as a new chalkboard, towards that opening which serves no further purpose beyound false hope for those who've slept where most have spewed, for those who weep while others wine, for those who dream greater than the lot of us all.

a squid. there was a squid and i remember kicking and splashing and yelling but i couldn't yell because of the water and i just remember seeing it in the back of my head. i saw it swimming fast and the tentacles reaching for me and the suckers grabbing my legs and i was scared. i was terrified. but i wasn't yelling. i couldn't yell. i don't know why i thought of it or what it really meant. i mean, people usually don't think of squid when they're about to die.

A revisiting (Part I)

i had written this for a girl, months ago, though we don't talk much anymore.

I was taken by a dream in my sleep the other night. I slipped into a

deep slumber, remembering only the photograph on the mantle near the bed before collapsing into a total dreamscape. In this dream I am me,

and I am reading a book. The book is no regular title and I cannot recall

the name of it either, but it is a story about a girl who lives in a

garden, a beautiful, green garden where the sun is always shining and

the flowers never die. Dandelions, roses, daffodils and the like, all

grow with a vitality that warrants mentioning. In this garden she is

surrounded by countless butterflies. They could carry her away at any

moment but in the garden with her they are peaceful.

 

Now while I am reading this book a strange thing begins to occur. The

lights around me start to dim and the room becomes extremely small. I

find that my arms are pressed directly against the walls now and I

start to fear that I may be crushed alive. In an instant an escape

reveals itself to me and I dive directly into the pages of the book.

I am suddenly swimming in a black lake that was once the letter "M".

It is very cold and dark. I try to find some sort of mark in the

distance, something to position myself by but only darkness returns

my gaze.

 

That is when I begin to sink. All around like mud the lake becomes

murky and thick, something of what I imagine a tar pit to feel like.

and I am sinking, terrified, an uncontrollable fear envelops me as I

battle with all of my might to stay above the suffocating liquid.

Struggling. Battling. Fighting to stay alive. Then black. Like a

chalk board wiped clean. Everything disappears. Am I dead? I cannot

possibly be of the deceased. I can still breathe, talk, and think. But all

I see is a sheet of black. Then, like a freight train at full speed

everything hits me and I see where I am.

 

I am alive. In a meadow or field of some sort. Never once in my life

have I been so happy to see the sun in the sky. An overwhelming

relief flows through me. This place is almost heaven, yet just a

field. It is not until I began to explore my newfound environment that

I realize where I am. This is the garden. I can see the white fence

surrounding the assortment of flowers, all rising above the fence

line as if to greet me. This beautiful scene that I was only reading

about what seemed like a lifetime ago. I approach the fence where a

gate is attached and opens it. I enter the garden and become instantly

engulfed by butterflies. What a feeling it was. Hundreds, thousands,

too many too count floating by like clouds. They abstract my vision

briefly and just briefly I flash back to the terrible place I had

just been. Briefly, and then, like a rainbow parting cloudy skies, I

see her.

 

Never before has a sight literally taken my breath away. I begin to

imagine all the sights, all the wonders of this world, and I think to

myself if any of those things could cause me to react in this way and

almost as quick as I think that thought I answer it. No. This girl,

this beautiful piece of creation could never be rivaled by anything

else this world might offer. She just stood there, her hair dancing

in the wind, with a gaze locked so tight on my own that the Gods themselves

could not break it. And still she just stands there like a goddess

and I feel as if I am cheating the rest of the world by looking upon

her. Those gorgeous, blue eyes, like something of the purest skies. I

would fly into them to live forever if given the chance. Peace and

love is in those eyes.

 

So I start to approach her. Every-step I take is emphasized by tiny

butterflies rising up from the ground. And as I pass the row of

orchids I come right up to her. I pause for a moment and we share a

look as if two lost souls finally finding the other. I try to compose

myself, try to find the right words, but before I can utter a

syllable this woman leans her head over to my ear and softly whispers

the words, "never forget my voice."

 

And then, like a knife to the heart, I am awake. In the land of the

living. those words still ringing in my head, vaguely reminding me of

something that once was. I can never forget her now. the most vivid

dream ever dreamt. The woman from my book and of my dream. If we

could only dream forever...