From A Disheveled Requiem
We Find Ourselves
The world is made up of over seven billion mythologies. Less than half of them will ever make it to print. And less than half of those mythologies will be read by the population. But these mythologies exist. They exist, they breathe, and they live as two lovers adore the apple of an eye not yet exposed to a world of love and lust and plasma. We exist to give life and to lead it to the next Universe. These mythologies introduce us to words of our own which are not yet known. How wonderful to know that there are words out there, waiting in the void for us to discover them and to embrace them as our own! How sad it is to think that these words might never make it to the cranium sitting atop a manifestation of God Himself. This is not to be confused with The Incarnate Man, but is, rather, man made by God and for God and of God. God becomes, in this sense, a deeper understanding and the deepest reality of our own mythology.
I am stark-eyed and anxious, laying in motionless anticipation for the dreams to roll in and to run out with the kayak, waiting to begin an adventure into the sea of the dreamspace.
As if in a trance, movement becomes dictated by thought, not action, not movement. Balance is a phenomenon unknown to the fawn. You see what you conceive in your mind but not in your imagination. To know that you know something is not quite right, but choose to act upon that something regardless of what your conscious self would recognise as no-so-right, is to dream. But it’s not so not-so-right that you won’t recover from loss or love or passion or death of the immoral you choose, simply because you are dreaming. To dream is to escape back into reality, to explore a world that feels oddly familiar, but something seems amiss. Dreams are a state of complete knowable selfhood.
I have a friend who fears practically nothing—he takes dives from the classroom desks and from the heights of a tree not yet explored and a world of love not yet had—yet he does have a fear, one of which I both admire and cringe at the thought. His brilliance cannot be taken for granted, as each thought pierces the flesh of each tree he climbs, each seat he takes at the front of the room, each page he pours his very blood into so that he may craft his very-real dreams into reality. His dreamscape becomes the words on the page, the thoughts dangling in the open air, the blood of a thousand martyrs. His Real is the very transfusion of the martyrs.
Published in the September 2015 Issue.