no recent dreams that i can remember. only murmurs and echoes. i wonder at it, at times.
there are times when, on the edge of sleep, i wish that i could choose what i would dream about. it would be the end of a story that i could not conceive of with my conscious mind. my submerged subconscious mind would take the raw elements that i offered up on the altar of my threshold mind, and transfigure and transmute them, and imbue them with a life and emotion and sincerity that i lacked. that is what i wish.
conscious life is a trap. we see only what we want to see. or more precisely, we see what we condition ourselves to see, which is not the same thing. deep inside, we WANT to see something different, a liberation, perhaps, or a pathway out. there are no pathways out, no crevices, in this reality that my conscious mind has constructed... an impregnable fortress... not that there are not concerns in this prison... things that i have neglected. i have a thousand worries. but then again, those worries are the very fabric of this prison.
the true dreams, even those of terror, have little to do with the worries of my conscious mind.
the true dreams are vast.
***
a state of being that allows impossibilities... it is necessary to act without purpose, or intent. this is the contradiction or paradox of the true art, or the true dream. although it has a power, its power is by its very nature untamable. therefore, to "capture it", and to impel it to allow one to ride it... involves a kind of pretending, a lie of sorts. a deception of ignorance.
***
the true dreams: a vast underwater empire, full of living things. a seduction that is endless, and never consummated (a promise unfulfilled)... other things, immemorable.
***
inspiration.
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