The Dream Makers
And how can my dream be standing pure while I am not steadfast? I thought rebuilding should come easy,for I am made of the same substance as faith is, but do I not have to find itin myself in the first place?Is not all of humanity enlightened somehow,to be able to live their lives without knowing any secret or holding any key? Do not speak of world hunger while your food rots away in your house, do not hope for univesal lasting peace when every day you live is an inner strife.You want to feel one with the oneness but are not one inside? Then how do you seek if not sure of finding and unscared of never finding? How do I see if all i think about are my own walls i build every morning?
A small part of me still knows to taste beauty, a tiny crystal yet holds true vision. Hurt, despair, what part is there inside that doesn't let me give up? How can I finally admit that, were it on my own, i would have blackened my heart and hands so many times untill now? Where is the wind taking the view that slips inside on moonless nights,when i still try and search for lost suns in the city's fog?
To rebuild, to rebuild - I wishpered to myself, to rebuild body and soul so I could bare my own dreams, I need a lightning core, constant as the alphabet, shining as compassion does, unwielding to fleeting desires and moods, concious of its burning, I needmy song to withstand the wild wild sea as my dream moves through the waves, smiling from horizon to horizon, though those far lines of earth-sky be empty and the road with no one in sight.
Even rocks dream, though I might not believe it myself, I say it, I repeat it, though this is not the way to belief. Why do I need to believe so much in anything, why indeed?
The last cat will die someday and we shall all be free, someone said. When I die, you who are close to me will remember my face and essence, your friends and kids will remember yours, then the sun will swallow all the linked chains that laughed and saw and tried overthe years and it will all be to dust here, but elsewhere, a cat would have escaped on some high-hoped spaceship and would remember what she had for a family.
And when that cat will meet time's end on a fist of rock in the stillness so black, somewhere, the footprintwill remain and a different sun will look upon it, for, why not, in this story stars also dream. When that star fades there will be another and yet another touched by that light. What is the last cat? Should I call it the last stand of the dust, the last fall of all dreams?
Are dreams not beautifull because they eventually end, oh, someone said that too I guess. Why does death blind me of the life given, why can't I see freedom in the same teapot with the end of all beings? I always wished the last cat was immortal, as I implacably and foolishly wish that for myself, and could not see that the last thing which stepped in the way was death.
For without the unknown, what are we, what is there left? Though I could only fight on and didn't build my dream back, within changing shadows and too little light, still, do not rule me out with the passing of winter, I will be here to fight in my own way, should the last cat remember me, next spring comming. For you, the people sharing the Last Cat, make me not think of my self sometimes.
And every tree is a lifetime, each leaf a memory. It started with a cold feeling making its bird nest in my chest, startling me with its strangeness. I came to hate the world for I couldn’t understand it anymore, I thought it abandoned for I found no one watching over it in my search.[…] They are still there, coming and going, you can find them if you look, only if you look harder, only if you look past what you are thought, what you have read, look to what you barely listen to, find the silenced moments and the dew, forever new, of your fever’s search.
With all conclusions left behind, neither yesterday or tomorrow, I realized that a king’s fool was a far better magician than I, that I lack determination and strive for too much seriousness, but I couldn’t give up, the worse of the lot as I was, for I have caught the magic singing on so many outstretched palms, wisping around stories, building waves over the souls of people I never knew.
I never turned my head, always sought them when I passed. I found out in one of the citadels that I am not insane, that so much machinery has driven the sun and moon out of so many of my people’s souls. I could finally call them my people, even though it remained as hard as before to call out. Sometimes I got smiles, though less of young people, perhaps they are feeling safer, perhaps I have become more secluded than most of my generation. I knew, nevertheless, that the lifestyle they could embrace did not fit me. Still, I kept going and the more I went I got swept off my feet more often. So many more were out there, I just couldn’t lock myself up in a mountain. Both sides waited there – and I knew I will eventually find the dreamers.
There are many ways to dream, you, reading this, have your own. Still, we recognize ourselves. Some of us have seen the lies and signs overcrowding all means of information from the fabled subway wall to the updating newspaper of the future. We know that however you wrap it, an atomic bomb won’t serve for defense, we hope for the critical mass of conscious beings that will reduce the insanity of the planet, who will never sell the soul of anyone for a grain of gold. We are called dreamers but I say we are only looking at the possibilities of today and believing in them while so many before us maintain with conviction that they are the impossible concerns of future generations, or worse, assume that war among us is in our nature. Wise men know that politics is overrated and something else makes the world go round. […]
I find that so many shelters are being built, so many humming contraptions that hold armies and bombs in their bellies, it would be better if we considered ourselves as a race the nervous system of this planet ( even though we are not ) and treat it accordingly. The sun and the mountains don’t make distinctions between our deaths and those of the other species that are here. You know the numbers. But how many know the feeling? […] My wishes travel, though I lay in bed, my good wishes count in this world, though my death will not. Even though I am erased, my wishes still go on and even though this is one of them, I will part with you gladly when the moment comes. My wishes have no power in themselves but they can travel and leave a trace behind and if this trail burns brightly enough others may come that way, and, mix in luck's aid and fate’s smile, people will build bridges where an empty feeling stood once. The power of thought is known to move destiny and I know you will ask for no proof. […] I fancy my mind with tearing down the walls between us and I didn’t even find some to make a home out of.
A wanderer is the son of man, still I can’t place my head over my own heart and sleep and so fall in the caving space behind, with all tails of light vanishing in the dark. If the road is my home, if the earth is my home, if my soul wanders between Venus and Mars how vast should my heart be? There are strangers that filled it quicker than my thoughts could ignite, they were homeless too, lonely sons of men, my home was theirs, for an instant theirs was mine.
So rich are the people of this world. They have each other and they haven’t fully realized that yet. When that happens I won’t be part of this world, still, I wish I was given the chance to see it. Their eyes will outshine the stars and supernovae, for they will have discovered they are rich beyond belief and in this see the reason for the power that was never theirs to command. […]
It should be an irony to spend life thinking about death and to be obviously unprepared at the last moment. I have been thrown from one side to another by loneliness, forced to sink down with the ship by all the people I love. I had to admit that my road will be ever lonely, that I know nothing for sure and still hope that I will find the ones to join me for a part of the adventure. I am far from impeccable yet I invite you on this great trip. Sometimes, I believe death can’t come for me, because this is for what I was born. […]
Some of the people I see go by themselves, some chose to depart in pairs. Most of them never leave the safety and familiarity of the port. I left the caravan or the caravan left me here, I still don’t know that, and I’ve been staring out, awed and attracted by the ocean, gathering my courage, looking for the right ship. I looked but couldn’t find anyone to share a voyage with, no friends, family, elven princess or shooting star. So far, I remain on the shore of humanity and I see each drop of water as one destiny rolling after another, and wait and search for a companion. I won’t be able to stay much after the sunset, however, and if high tide, will leave alone. Between my lashes I look out and see the few ships that sail beyond my sight. I must find someone to go with me over the lingering horizon.
Help us stand before the sun.
So does the falling star reflected in your eyes,
Before its wake in the sea.
Praise the fiery fox, the pure sun. The heart of a poem is not a crystal core, not even were it flawless. The heart of the poet was full of fireflies; they found shelter when he passed the swamp and forest, don’t think they didn’t give their last flicker freely at each fall of the letters. The space between the words was covered by the sighs of the small creatures; a full stop was a sign of compassion. Read on, unravel their light strings, quiet down his heart by taking out their light, steal his sight, bead by bead, his hearing and his speech, confound him in unfeeling, pick out the memories he’s left with one by one. His heart was a light year away. A bitter battle is to pass over one’s own grief, to softly place your hand in the place you expected one to be offered. Be gentle when you can, hold your tears for a future moment, make them your joy for crying out alone. Tear the wall down and use its bricks to lay wide bridges, go forth and embrace who ever needs it, whoever you have a hold on. The space between your fingers resembles music, use them to shake hands, swing them to hum in your walk, put the moon in the depths of your weaver's loom when you encircle it. Make your fingers dance and whisper and many roads will spring in search of needed help, you will have forgotten the bitter grief which started you on this. How I wish I did it more. So much more.
All the roads unfinished, all the words unspoken, for all the other choices than never went down the stream, for the multitude of gods who never came to be, all the miles walked in search of secret promises, all the lies told in place of all goodbyes, for most of times that came out better in the end, for all the times I'd said I found you, all those have escaped my gaze and hearing, evaded my thought and became free, for not even flight hindered them out there. I wait for you now, have counted the stars since I was a child, and hang my white ladder by the moon every clear night, hoping you’ll pass by.
The yard was golden and the dust only makes this memory keep more of its old taste. There are fewer and fewer squirrels in the park, I guess I’ll have to move to another town soon, I don’t want to lose my first memories in some battered down park that doesn’t resemble my visions as a child. I get the feeling the squirrels are playing with me and with the world, I can taste the pines from the park and I remember people understood little from what I asked them when I was a child. It never rains in here, I’ll just bend over the golden curtain and tuck a thread in my pocket, don’t worry about my first day among other kids, I can still see it, taste the fine thick dust and the hard shadow strolling down the stony yard.
The pulse Within
Sometimes I have the necessary energy and intension to change my eyes and see old people bearing their own childhood’s eyes. Then the features of the face follow this transformation and I have the feeling that so little time has actually passed for them, no matter the multitude of experiences and surprises. Wouldn’t it be a well deserved wonder to be born old and die young?[...]
No child avoided my look, when I was hungry for human eyes, but more than that, most have the wit and curiosity to seek it. Those eternal wanderers would never wage war. Perhaps they are more than beyond good and evil; they represent more than a clear slate to be written upon by perception and happenstance. You could never understand a child if you never lived like that after you abandoned the free, small things – the true gifts of the world, even if you had your own[...]
Reach for the beauty and base desire that resides in you. Surprise yourself with your questions, never quench as a flame and never abandon the search, even if all around you did. Never forsake the quest, even if you are laughed at, or nothing of it is familiar to the people you live with. Though the search may be bitter, and the beating and the reward seem to switch places often enough, hang on to your belief. If desperate, I could only give advice I never followed – let go… and take hold[...]Don’t be in a hurry and wish this sad empty moment away. It will pass as surely as you would want your joyous times to last so much longer; still I wouldn’t go as far as collecting my precious moments for future use or old age. I wish I didn’t, anyway. If you could ring that clear voice of one mind, scatter the clouds of endless light play between doubt and belief, you might find that you are not an odd assembly of memories, a twisted knot of perception who finds his desired ease in dreams[...] Few people notice him. His life was just a bramble of roads upon which he tried to exert control. If life dealt him unexpected cards he cheated in his mind, it was easy enough. The desired way, fixed and sufficient, the only satisfying goal, that’s all that he wanted, that’s the only thing that fit, the only one that could have been destined. And woe, he was sound in his own way, wanting to forge his destiny out of reach of the impending, ever watchful, never caring stars[...]
No answer came from the stars yet. The end became boring by being unavoidable, like the strike of luck you know to have just ended. Reality became something tangible, for it was inflexible, the fixed pole made the repetition of his own thoughts and ways faster. There were no skies left for his wishes. No lifetime was long enough, and mystery was no longer needed. He was so thirsty[...] I blow the dust from the abysses and crevasses I inhabit, hollow out the mist from above the vast openings. I tidy up my small room, this hour I have several constellations invited, we shall laugh at those mystery chasers and theory breakers and reforgerers of laws. We plan to go further so you can not ask what we are after. You won’t find the need to argue or balance the fruit in your mind. Your eyes will smile briefly, but it will be enough to light the room and chase away my stars. So uplit and slightly hollow became the room, I guess a light melancholy could ball me over, so I’d better invite you in, my unknown friend[...]
Autumn is here, I’m not reluctant to speak, even though I haven’t actually met someone in a long while. My eyes are still good, taking in all the colors, watching as they wane from one hue to another. I can’t say I am content, but it still fills me up with a tingle to watch the shadows strike the earth at sunrise and sunset. Sometimes I sing and hum, not only for my own ears but for all the life around me. Long ago I realized I couldn’t keep track of time[...] Why is it so hard after so many years, to show others who you really are? You’d age a lot less and would have a chance to give, for a change. It would be like finally listening to what the other has to say, filling all the wells to the brim and inviting your friends to drink.
Why is it so hard to be a truth speaker without being embarrassed, or offending, or hiding, better yet. If you show yourself you’ll get closer to that G*d you’re searching for or have given up as missing. You know, out there, there must be some beings that do this at a larger scale, what sense of honor must they have, what common sense. By choosing the harder, twisted way, what do so many of us think they shall gain?[...]
Someone wrote: ‘They were all heroes, in spite of themselves ‘. I would have to apply this to the nameless ones. I guess most heroes are not conscious of their attributes and perhaps some of them would not, could not live otherwise; a fact which doesn’t diminish any of the choices they have made. Heroes are, by my standards, if I must have any, the sanest members of our society. Just don’t pinpoint a type of character when you hear the term ‘hero’[...]
We are limited by our eyes, and our eyes are limited in turn by our mind. If we all wore masks, how beautiful and focused our eyes would be; if our faces looked the same, only looks could tell tales. It would be more difficult to talk of one’s beauty or deformity if before you stood his aura of translucent filaments. The hands stand for the matrix of all living beings and in particular, human kind; we are obviously more alike than we wished, and intertwined by space and time. Those filaments are omnipresent and all signals meet in this vast network, one’s passing may herald someone else’s coming. The five fingered race may someday set but this radiance will find other forms[...]
What comes from inside is stronger than any religion or word, any family root, any drug or invention of mankind. Make of your laughter and cries allies, reach for the sacred moment. Any two humans could go further than their words would carry them, how do you know when to stop in your belief, relight the spark, for two can make the light grow where one was alone in his dreams. Look the other in the eye and let whatever you feel expand, don’t stand in front of the wind of seeing that will blow over you. Any two people in the world are close, yet do not believe it[...]
I leap, levitate, give momentum to my flight, quiver, tremble and ignite with an impulse, I escaped through the window, traveled the hills from one of my memories, ran to the same things that mean the world to me, still I see landscapes I have never seen before, travel through places I never heard of, how well it is all placed, how many days have I lived there, why should you honestly believe it’s not your second life, your life could be a dream and death the dreamless sleep, so I hope one time two people would meet there and by their own accord fly and postpone waking up, how many sunsets could you save, how many could you offer your body, weak and pressed by laws and thermodynamic arrows and hidden immortals and such, how much freedom to your self, to be closer to the lightness of the leaves and birds that you see in your wake.
To be a traveler in your dreams and one day find a companion there, I would not need to come back[...] This forest has no seasons, just bright flows jutting from the ground. It snows with pulsating lights here, rains with tiny comets. If you walk around on a starry night, you would see it as perfectly natural, would not notice the absence of trees and grass and rock, not even of your thoughts.
Fire in the Sky
Below the dark sky which reveals the emptiness, beset with golden coiled clouds, stretches a glowing white path, cut out of stone. It is an underground world whose shadows speak of gold and brass patterns, whose leaves leave fractal models on the ground. The path goes on and on, from one hill to another, carrying you, the visitor. You can wander off the path through the bleak, dense forest and its odd flowers, or just keep going, taking one of the few stars as reference. It’s a lonely road, and perhaps it’s the strangeness that compels you to look for a companion along side it, or maybe it’s something from inside that stirs at the view of all those bare stones, fit for telling a story. It’s the sharing of the adventure that counts to you, after all. And it would be for the better if the path were endless, whatever it may bring[...]
One time I ran so fast on the path that gravity overtook me and I fell over. Sometimes I just stop in the middle of it and look around, having the feeling that it’s pointless to continue or seeing things for that ‘first time’. The path may be a stream or a loop or barely a slice of time for all I care, perhaps the ending is unimportant in relationship with the road. Still, one thing can not escape my mind and give it rest; that a path carries with it a taste of a personal destiny and myth. To walk the path as the traveler, how can I wear the cloak of the witness, knowing this?[...]
Someone said that people don’t look at the sky anymore. I guess that living in a city makes the chances even slimmer. So I advise you to stop in the middle of your way and look up. Or perhaps, if that doesn’t wash anything over you, press your fingers hard over your ears. The resulting silence is not artificial, but quite welcome, I should say. I know, I do those things so seldom[...]
A cold world, of crystal trees and plants, translucent flowers and blades of grass. All flowing, overlapping, a myriad dance of shadows and highlights. You can lay on your back amidst them, the galaxies are so close now, how many tides of beings are out there, starting over and over, you wander, as you can’t get enough of the sky. Because the information is boundless, you can be swept up in your perception and taken far away on strings of thought until you can no longer think but only dream. I hope this goes further. I, for one, could never get enough[...]
We woke up and were far away from any living thing but from ourselves and this was frightening so we did the first thing we could, we built shelters, first for need, then for glory, afterwards for locking ourselves in. We found that we were good at building walls and that perhaps only through separation we could gain peace. But peace is not something to find but to carry, and even if the citadel has only an oasis, still we can not gather around it[...]
I do not want to warn you to stay away from the draught found in the eyes of the people that live in those cities, someone else did before me. I only advise you to put on thick soils to that pair of shoes, for you will tread hard and long and no glitter will lure you. But when and if it does, the smile will take you by surprise, much looked for as it was. And if you ever find that oasis where people give away water for free, be sure to tell me, for a happy reunion[...]
[...]To go for a ride in your own mind and levitate through the room in your dreams. For your brain it is the same. A great thinker said that reality is the ruin of a fairytale. Through thick fog shiny insects escape the conformity of a perfectly ordered universe. They create new worlds by themselves, a tiny eon hidden in the passing of a moment. I guess no tale could be endless, no hero may avoid death and that this naturally gives the sweet and bitter, divides the coin. But when you walk through this span of marvels you’re just here for the spin[...]
A fairy tale is more than an unclear, desirable memory of your youth and it is not found only in old men’s ramblings. It walks with you and depends on how much life you give away. It is more than a game or a view into another world, it is no fable or virtual reality but a working of your inner world and the worlds of others. For no matter how many unique fairytales, the mist binds them in its static flow. If we could only float more from one to another…[...]
All over the ocean there are islands that serve as shelters to the traveling birds. This island offers no source of food or comfortable place to rest. However, each time the sun sets or rises, the rainbow’s colours pass through the gathered crystals, giving life to the stone encircling, painting the waves with warm gleams. The birds actually appreciate the spectacle drawn by the painter; they prove to have more sense than most people[...]
Many of us like to entertain the foolish conviction that we know better than anyone what set of cards should have been given to us. Actually, nor we or anyone else can boast that claim. Where would all the surprises go to? I try to think thus when the soil on which I stand seems too rough, or the life upon it scattered and unconnected. I sure hope that those pebbles cut into my skin so I could have my lot of wonders later, I think, stumbling[...]
I want no forest to hind in. No scheming mind. I would trade intelligence for pureness, if that came as an alternative. A candle’s shadow, wavering but unmistakable to all the lights of the sports arena, splitting the person and leaving a trail of fake choices behind. Only the present can be cleaned up, without thinking of the future[...]
' Remembrance is eternity ' – just don’t write it on your tombstone. I try to tell myself stories so I can fall asleep. Seventy times or so the leaves turn to rust, and then you never know you’ve ever been. I fall into my dreams of tall spires, wizards and fair ladies and each saving the world in turn. How can I ever give up something that is part of me? The old sun is out there, and I still have things to do here.