Chain of Dreams

Some dreams fade into obscurity soon after waking never to relive in our minds again. Others, grab tight to our souls and minds refusing to leave.

Chain of Dreams

By Cleve Sylcox 3/27/10

 

 

Dreams float in a haze of white then linger in the stillness of thought. Last night I dreamt in the passage of time to a place long ago, in what might be a different life. With every ounce of strength I lost control once more, falling into the veil, just as I had done those many years ago.

            Time heals all wounds some say, but I think some smolder like cinders in the heart never relinquishing, never cooling completely, never completely quiet. They vanish from sight, but never completely hidden. I do not feel them, and in time do not see them in my minds eye as often. And if they should form in the white gravity of conscious thought with fading forms, listless in all ways, they are easy to dismiss, my conscious never wavering.

The thought of it, and them, slowly fades but never cools. In a moment, in some creeping kind of way something sparks a memory, a chair or a lamp, the smell of something cooking, a color, or a place. Maybe nothing at all, and the memory surfaces from the primordial depths of the subconscious but something touches the cooling inner particle of remembrance, that cooling piece of the past, which I had long to forget finds new life and burns again. Maybe for a moment then gone, other times it burns bright and hot, fading quickly into its shallow retreat. Lately, into my thoughts without warning or desire they boldly come to torture my mind and heart again before suddenly disappearing as before. They do not stay long.

Time, mercifully, has removed details from their form, the place, and of them. Vague images, vague voices, like the fog it lives in, the details seem thin, formless, wafting images fading through a thick curtain of white. Last night I was there again, in that place. This time the vagueness removed, the veil lifted, detail restored to sight and sounds and smells, though meanings remain locked away.

 I stood in a dimly lit room vacant and void of any comfort. Cold dampness wrapped around me. Dirty brown flowered wall paper torn and hanging loose from one wall. Thick cobwebs hang in one corner of the ceiling still and dusty. The carpeted floor is dust laden and with every step a musty smell leaps into my nostrils. An empty dented tin bucket lay on its side near the center of the room covered in a thick layer of grime, and a gold piece of jewelry lay next to it as if just placed there moments ago, free of dust or tarnish. I pick up the gold piece recognizing it as hers, a gift of sorrow and apology from some distant argument holding no new malice or contempt, only a promise and a memory of her smile, and laugh. I lift it close to my eyes. A gold heart inlaid with a single small turquoise stone on its right side, and the words Forgive Me etched in circling swirls. A thin gold chain dangles out of my palm swaying back and fourth.

That was a warmer time filled with smiles.

The room around me suddenly shook violently, and unknowingly I dropped the necklace as I braced myself against the wall. Bits of plaster dropped from the ceiling, thick dust rolled up from the carpet filling the air in a cloud, the bucket rattled shaking off its grime, and the wall paper ruffled as if fanning the dust rising in thickening waves. Through the dust I thought I saw a shadow of someone standing across the room, in a dark corner. For a brief moment it was her, there again with me. Detail vague in the dust storm before me, but her face shown like fire, and her hot rage I felt through the cold dampness. Like a flame her eyes shot across the room piercing my soul turning me to ash, I withered  in fright. A cloud of carpet dust rose shielding the form and when it dissipated she was gone. The shaking subsided in a low roar then stops completely leaving me in a cloud of choking dust. I peer through the cloud at a shadow of the room all around, my heart racing, my knees weak.

Bracing myself against the wall I cover my face and wipe away sweat from my brow. Looking down I notice the necklace lying at my feet. Lifting it I brush away the dust as it lay in my palm with the chain dangling once again. I pass my finger over the words removing the dust from the swirling cursive etched in loving desire for pardon. I flip it over checking it for damage and find a word I had not scribed. A word dug into the metal with fierce daggers of hate. The lines jagged, rough etched out the word, No.

I awoke.

Sitting up in bed I look around as if expecting to see the room I just parted, but I see my bedroom in the light of early morning. The alarm clock buzzes. The smell of coffee fills the air. Outside I can see the sun is radiant, brightly shining through the window casting a brilliant sunny rectangle for the dog to sun himself. Around me though is a cold dampness, a deep forbidding cold. I pull the blankets around me and lay back in bed curling into a ball pulling sheets and comforter tightly around me and tucking the pillow snug under my head. My eyes stare across the bed and sheets to the far wall where a wardrobe and chest of drawers stand neatly against a wall of blue. Something then drops in front of my eyes narrowly missing my nose. It lands on the bed with a soft metallic sound as its piles on top of itself. I know what it is without looking.

It is the necklace.

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