Interlude

Mornings and nights when I awaken,
my jovial sleep is depressed by a new reality:
My bed overlooking a window to a landscape of impossibilities. Therein lie the deepest desires of my soul, triggered by unconscious exposure to propoganda and the floating ideas of men. I am possessing the sensation of beauty, and eager for its actualization. But there are no worlds within my reach where fields sparkle like gold and the sky is an endless sea, and the ether that formed the earth is left at my disposal. No-any beauty that treds these parts I carried from slumber, opening my hands only to find its turned to dust in transit. Sadly, I let it slip like time through my fingers...

But there was a moment I was drowned in colors, and the novelty of the experience let me know that it was magic. I was a child swept under a wave, fear forcing my arms to resist. Eyes forced open in terror, I was soon calmed by a song of blues, purples and whites beneath the sea. Breath waning, there was no life to worry about, it was not day or night-it was a sensation my body possessed: dying peacefully. Yet as I slowed my own resistance, the ocean sensed my defeatism and threw me back into life,retreating again into its vortex of certain endlessness. When I arose, there were dark bodies sparkling in the shallow waters, laughing into the setting sun. In this world, the secret of my death is not a thing for poetry, but for the restless shadows of impossibilities I cast outside my window.

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To dream in life as well as in sleep, is to believe in ghosts. It is to carry phanotms, other-wordly fantasies, into the world of man and allow them breath. Footsteps where no one walked, a song with no composer, the whistling you sometimes hear-all the mysteries of sleepwalkers-those unforunate men who know not the difference between here and there.

I am one of them, living a million lives inside my head, loving for reasons that dont exist. To be ambitious is to presuppose a destiny. But what is this destiny? Of what is it composed? We can track a million years past by measures of erosion-but not a single minute into the future. I can imagine a potentiality, but this image is a mystery to be discovered. We are all subconciously casting images into that nonexistent space and time ahead, like throwing lines into the ocean. One or two may bite, but what of the ghosts who never manifest? They are put to rest and are forgotten in death. But from time to time, up from the racing oceans and streams, one may here the phantom song of a long forgotten dream...