Yesterday I was ill and now I am well. My immune system dances like an exotic Gypsy maiden whose feet step too close to a fire only to spin away before any real damage can be done. Cursing the impending down swing and my week fortitude I stumble from bed searching for a glass to fill with water. The life giving water that will quench the fire or at least give a rest to the tattoo that encourages the maiden's tireless feet. Slowly, civilly, my senses return to me with the grace of a melancholy kitten barely able to lift it's own head from the burlap before it hits the icy water.
Then Absolute clarity. My symbol heavy life suddenly bleeds away with an insurmountable tenacity leaving me alone in my room, cold and naked. I am drenched in the sweat of what must have been an intense dream, though it's contents has now vacated my head. All that remains of me is the physical, and that physical is cold. shuffling towards my closet i drag a warn out terrycloth robe from the tangles of unfinished laundry. Secure within it's flimsy folds I continue to the kitchen where I run the coffee machine, sans the coffee, to get water for tea. Once the tea has steeped and I have calmed my aching bones with a stiff shot of chi I am able to slip back, back to the metaphor. I search for my dreams with the obsessed tenacity of a B-movie buff looking for the rarest of prints. I dig through hours of those unlabeled reals that make up my dreams, and then it strikes me.
I am looking for a complete fragment, when what I need is a fragmented whole. A dream shouldn't look like an uncut dolly-shot. It has clipping and angles and mine was not only conforming to the rule but it was in all fact the rule itself.
(more to come... maybe... maybe I don't yet not sure where it was going just wanted to write.)