Dreaming Exam

The foot of the hill, the spire of the mountain, the whispers of the oaks, the caress of the wind, the rush of a mid-spring’s aura.  Life.  My life lay before me in a canvas full of grassy greens, scorching vermilions, and blues more succulent than the blueberries of fields below me.  And here I am, atop my throne of mists and minds, feeling as if there isn’t a care that can take my eyes away from this:  my masterpiece in the world �" my home.  And as the wind takes the seed from these dandelions, so it takes my soul, fluttering amongst the birds.  I am…not.

 

Lying upon the bed, covered in sheets without grandeur, I lay awake in the peak of night.  I look around to see only the occasional flashing light of a clock never set, realizing I am quite so �" never set as well.  My venture into imagination is cut short as I readjust to what we know as reality.  I’m awake wishing I was asleep, not because I am tired, but for the sake of dreams.  Good.  Bad. Indifferent.  Any dream to break the monotony of the reality:  never being ahead, always being in debt to something or someone, and never quite making that full transition between my younger and older years.  And with the hopes of dreams in my heart, and the coddling of a teddy bear, I try my hand at returning to the places I can go only when reality slips through the cracks.

 

To the furthest reaches of spans insurmountable, utterly inconceivable to modern man; to the ancients, the origins, the everlasting questions of why and how, I traverse.  I am a wayward traveler aboard a vessel in the stars, riding on the wax and the wane of destiny and the inextinguishable blaze of man’s free will.  Which current will sweep me away to an ultimate demise of unbeknownst glory and poetic caesura?  Will I be laid upon the tracks of destiny and simply ride along the rail?  Or will I bend and manipulate this plane to my liking, tossing and turning in the means of my eternal slumber?  All of this answered in my tale �" the expedition into the space between spaces, the crevice in which all sands filter, the ultimo dynamo �" the final mechanism.

 

Still, nothing.  I still am still.  I am awake again, lying in a damp conformity of cotton sheets and emblazoned patterns.  Will nothing keep my head a lay?  Am I forced to continue down this path of anticlimactic adventures with no way to reoccur them? With eyes a drear, and head poignantly pounding, I flutter between the dimension and dimension-free.  My dreams are becoming more frequent now that I’ve taken down the dream catcher given to me long ago.  Perhaps in it’s flaunted mysticism there is some truth.  It wouldn’t surprise me as my faith left me long ago along with my innocence.  Not to say I don’t believe, for the opposite is quite the truth.  I believe very strongly, just in what, is fluid it seem.  And with that, I take a sip of room-warmed water, and make that futile attempt to continue a dream.

 

Staying virtuous seems harder and harder these days, as temptations flock to the doorstep of the taken. I’ve been in situations that a normal man would have cracked and allowed the fiery lust take control, burning the love that has endured.  I’ve seen women lay next to me, coddling under my arm, burning with their own desires.  I’ve had propositions both suggestive and literal.  I’ve taken hands from me in the thought of the true lady I love.

 

This tale is about four couples, five wayward loves, that intersected in the most vibrant manner.  Through destiny or through happenstance, a business merger of an impending marriage, a rough-and-tumble suburb fiasco, a burlesque pair of foreigners, and a wayward set of fugitives, find themselves upon each other’s terrain. 

 

Within a week, each learns something about their significant other, and about everyone else’s significant other.  And there I am, the rock, and yet, the fulcrum that all balances upon.  Why does everyone think that I am wise beyond my years, as they come to me with their newly found dilemmas?  At this point, I don’t even know who is with whom.  But I do know much more than I wish I had.  I know the lack of performance in the business merger.  I know the classless fiasco’s endeavors, and how she longs for class and stature.  I know the literal ins and outs of the foreigners’ midnight practices.  And I know what the fugitives are really running from �" each other.

 

Odd isn’t it, that it seems as if I dream in varying formats, varying languages, so to speak.  The first dream seems rather fanatical �" a fantasy world reveling in the age of myth.  The next, a pseudo-futuristic adventure through time, space, and self.  The latter, a burlesque comedy/self-illumination drama about sex, love, and lack thereof.  It’s odd to look back at them and see the change in tone and verbosity, as I wrote all three, and all three were dreamt by me, and yet, the writing styles and content seem utterly different.  Even now, as I delineate my inner monologue on these subjects, I see in these asides in between dreams that my writing style has not changed.  It only changes within the confines of the dream-thought.  Who knows if any of this has any reason to be, but perhaps, with more cross-examination, I’ll be able to find some sort of lineage to these seemingly random dreams.