with wet fingers, we turn the pages. we are waiting for truth to break through.
This is the first night that there's been a twinge of autumn in the air, that rich smoky chill that enchants the air in the fall. I love nights like this. I loved waking up this morning, with a sweet, sweet wind slipping through my window, the trees shivering, some sort of essence to the day that made me glad to be drowsing between worlds. The world of almost-autumn, and the world of my dreams, where my wishes and needs become convoluted symbols, disturbing in their accuracy. I read somewhere that we only remember the parts of our dreams that don't threaten our conception of reality. The further we progress intellectually, spiritually (the intellect and the spirt are inextricably bound) the more of our dreams we remember, the more we can control them. I've only been able to achieve absolute lucidity when I was on a cruise, travelling tropical oceans, seeing the eternity of stars when they are not drowned out by electric light pollution, phosphorous glowing beneath the crest of waves, a sublime, holy joy glowing inside of my chest. each night as the waves rocked me into a darkness where I didn't lose my way at all. i was so aware of everything i didn't forget who i was, even asleep. so i got to conduct this fabulous orchestra -- i got to weave a universe i could touch, taste, and change. i loved how the moment when i realized i was dreaming, i could look around at the dream-world, focusing intently on each detail, each blade of grass, which seemed much more reach in some way, than the real, waking world. Light was more hauntingly luminous. You could taste emotions in the air. Everyone knew just what you were feeling the moment you felt it and looked at you with a comforting empathy. That's how it was in my dreams, those few times i could control it. the replica of the world i made in my head was somehow more lovely, more valid, more vivid, than the world i was forced to move through when i was awake.