Would you like to daydream with me? She whispered.
About being somewhere else, together.
She wanted to dissolve the abstraction of loneliness
formed in the solitude of our distance, and I agreed, not knowing how.
Imagine we’re not alone in our separate rooms, she instructed.
But I am alone in my room, I pointed out, tugging at the edges of her construction.
Her frown spilled over me, and I fumbled, blindly.
But it’s okay, because the walls are melting, I began, blandly.
Her eyes snapped to mine, but mine were already closed, iris lost inside the moment.
My whispered words spoke tenderly of wild dreams netted by lucid intention:
I think the paint must be wet,
leaking out of pores,
seeping from solid to liquid to gaseous tendrils snaking out into the air.
But the tendrils, like tentacles, like blades of grass, green and sharp,
slice viridian strokes in the ether,
wounding nothingness but opening divisions,
chasms of color that cascade together to build an advancing cavern of eloquent prose;
not the language of words, but the language of mythology,
the language of architecture,
visions of God down from above,
the sculptures of ancient bodies preserved in amber,
stalagmites piercing the base of brains that strain the great lanes of thought,
running through the labyrinth like green shoots, effervescent in spring.
My lips fumbled and muttered, I think the world is starting to fall apart,
sliced into ribbons of rhythms,
tumbling up into the ceiling which is the sky, since the ceiling was never there to begin with,
just a palette of azure Aztec tinctures,
alchemic mixtures,
used by artists to purify abstraction on grey canvas,
like dandelions wrapped around lions to form manes of golden green iridescence.
But no, that’s not right, because it’s night,
and I’m crawling between bedsheets that cover the land in fluff tumbling sweeps of comfort,
like warm snow,
an encompassing hug of obese arms, spreading across landscapes of undefined and
unknowable borders.
Stars attempt to light the dark edges, but no one stands ready at the rising pinnacles
to record each passing photon,
and so the reflections are lost and the cartographer remains hidden.
The world is swamped in unseen waters,
that lure fluttering sails like shoreline sirens,
an ocean of land, loose and void of form,
the calming storm of raindrops on wind-chimes,
singing chaotic resonances that practice the reverences paid to the night.
My daydream has become a night dream,
but flight seems to be the only answer to escape this theme;
the gravity of our covenant clips the wings of the reverent,
so we run through the forest, chanting druidic prayers.
While lizards and bears hunt salmon
and share the fruits of their labor,
we stumble, looking for a savior in the form of a tree cast tall from the ground
rooted in the history of knowledge and sound.
We reach longingly for the fruit, but hang on, doesn’t this seem familiar?
Haven’t we been here before?
Nothing more than the sown seeds of a broken farmer,
eager for the death of a sacrificial martyr
espousing his ego upon the masses,
that dangle in the riven distinction of societal classes,
an absence of morality driving the totality of endeavors retrograde.
We sit passively and observe the subconscious flow of expression;
rivers of inspiration gush gurgle and slip over waterfalls in reverse,
tumbling backwards to envelope the inward source of their orchestrations,
and the orchestra tunes down in slow motion,
while light slowly fades
and the dream gently unpicks itself,
falling away into a dark confluence
of all the rumored possibilities yet to be described.
I opened my eyes.