Monday, March 1, 2010

[Chapter 6] Dreaming.

To dream is to bestow obscurity, for dreaming is not intended to exuviate perspective. Dreams encrypt our psyche while unequivocally embellishing our deepest reveries. The primer, hidden deep within our subconscious, is the quintessential missing link.


My gaze is transfixed. Paralysis has clinched victory over myself and my body reeks of insecurity and unease. I try to look away, to look away before she senses my ineptitude. Staples clasp my eyelids to my brow. A droplet of blood trickles down the posterior of my nostril, crying freedom as it drops into a blissful oblivion.

I’m elevated, not floating, merely elevated. My stomach wrenches, either infinitely or finitely, I’m unable to tell as I prepare to become one with the earth. The earth rudely evades me. A lonely gray surrounds me; #999999 in its consummate essence. I’m only able to sense the earth floating below me as vertigo waits to settle in for the evening.

What a treat it is to see that Death has come rapping upon my chamber door, only to dash my pessimistic hopes and prayers once more.

“But why not me?” I implore.

“After you I am not, it is Her you are for.” Death responds as the shrouded black hole sanctimoniously diverts its stare thievishly upward.

Her chestnut locks compliment Her hazel eyes. Floating graciously above me, she stares ostentatiously through me. I want to look away, to close my eyes; crimson tints my vision.

Her mouth opens as if to scream, but instead a stereo of heavenly melodies is exuberated into the air about me. She sings. Oh does she sing! To say that Her aria brings warmth to my soul would be to belittle each striking note. My pain is diminished and my gray incubus gives way to a blessing dressed in the bluest of skies.

As swiftly as bliss rises, bliss sets.

Men from all angles are drawn. They are drawn from thin air, from above, and from sides all around. Doctors, lawyers, architects, and stockbrokers; they surround Her. They approach from above me. I try to fly but I am grounded. I outstretch my arms, but the length of my reach falls short by a distance that would otherwise be deemed negligible.


She stares at me. I stare at Her. A moment of understanding. Is this emotion that she bequeaths? Longing? For fear I will never know, as she is engulfed by the offspring of everlasting dreams.

I’m falling; Death has granted my wish. Whether ‘twas a moment or an eternity, ‘tis not for me to know. Purgatory has relinquished my soul.

My blue is trumped by my gray which gives way to my familiar black. Hope of waking is confused with that of dying.

Trey -AKA- The Mad Wordsmith