Dreams
Dreams, I think, are stories that our unconscious mind has somehow plucked from the ether. I have this wonderful mental image of stories existing whole and into themselves, strings of fancy, dancing motes of light and knowledge, traveling, always moving, vibrating their way through the universe. So many stories, each particle, each wave of physical reality, traveling with a seed, a single kernel attached. An idea. Maybe these stories that travel our universe were created by life, because they're certainly shaped by it. Do dreamers on other worlds close their eyes and find their own landscapes, already crafted for them, ready to be populated by the characters their entire world has helped to shape?
I love my dreams. I wake up sometimes, and just lie there, remembering the story I was privileged enough to become an avatar for, even for such a short period of time.
Not a very good avatar, sadly. I think the authors of the world, the truly great and the truly terrible, are people who revere the story. They connect, they play it out in their mind, and they become their words. They stream these stories, like perfectly pitched antennae, but they also craft them. They are fertile soil for the seed of an idea, and they grow and nurture and sometimes violently pull into being the full potential of that single vibrating wave of a story.
I don't revere the story. I wake up, and I smile, and I think about how I would tell my story. And the words are never right. They're clunky and dull, they do no justice to the vivid story I just dreamt. The images... oh, the images are beautiful. And impossible for me to craft. I dreamt last night of an alien world, populated by barbarians and gentle people, of a love story between a crotchety warrior and a lovely young women, of leaders led astray by a beautiful and fertile slave named Keikei, of wolves subverted and trained to protect the twins carried in the belly of this woman. Twins who, once born, would tear their world apart in an effort to reshape it into something better. I have this incredibly vivid image in my head still, of the man and the woman realizing their lust for each other. They are on a red and white speckled mushroom, and I am on the ground, I am the ground, 20ft below them, looking up. They've been eating what looks like an apple, but with just a thin coating of flesh surrounding black and bitter seeds. He looks at her as she strips the layer of flesh away from the seeds with her teeth, and he grabs her waist and kisses her. She kisses him back, and they crash together. I watch as he pushes her to her knees and stands above her, and their bodies are perfectly outlined in the viciously bright sun as she leans out over the edge and licks the side of his cock while he comes, his cum shooting out and over the side of the mushroom, glistening in the sunlight and falling into my eye.
Srsly. That's what I see. And there is no way in fuck I can do justice to that story. I've already cheapened it with a simple description. Because I don't think about the story when I write. I think about the people reading it. I don't lose myself in the words, I lose myself in the thought of my words will affect people. And that just doesn't work. Not for stories. Maybe for reporting.
But that's ok. I look forward to going to sleep at night, to tuning in to worlds that don't exist yet, or which haven't existed for eons. I look forward to the beauty I would never get to see otherwise, and I let it nourish me. I'm too selfish a person to be able to give birth, as it were, to the potential out there. But I can appreciate the ability in others. Lord knows, the boxes and boxes of books in my house are a silent testimony to my love of these privileged folk who can do what I can't.
I love my dreams. I wake up sometimes, and just lie there, remembering the story I was privileged enough to become an avatar for, even for such a short period of time.
Not a very good avatar, sadly. I think the authors of the world, the truly great and the truly terrible, are people who revere the story. They connect, they play it out in their mind, and they become their words. They stream these stories, like perfectly pitched antennae, but they also craft them. They are fertile soil for the seed of an idea, and they grow and nurture and sometimes violently pull into being the full potential of that single vibrating wave of a story.
I don't revere the story. I wake up, and I smile, and I think about how I would tell my story. And the words are never right. They're clunky and dull, they do no justice to the vivid story I just dreamt. The images... oh, the images are beautiful. And impossible for me to craft. I dreamt last night of an alien world, populated by barbarians and gentle people, of a love story between a crotchety warrior and a lovely young women, of leaders led astray by a beautiful and fertile slave named Keikei, of wolves subverted and trained to protect the twins carried in the belly of this woman. Twins who, once born, would tear their world apart in an effort to reshape it into something better. I have this incredibly vivid image in my head still, of the man and the woman realizing their lust for each other. They are on a red and white speckled mushroom, and I am on the ground, I am the ground, 20ft below them, looking up. They've been eating what looks like an apple, but with just a thin coating of flesh surrounding black and bitter seeds. He looks at her as she strips the layer of flesh away from the seeds with her teeth, and he grabs her waist and kisses her. She kisses him back, and they crash together. I watch as he pushes her to her knees and stands above her, and their bodies are perfectly outlined in the viciously bright sun as she leans out over the edge and licks the side of his cock while he comes, his cum shooting out and over the side of the mushroom, glistening in the sunlight and falling into my eye.
Srsly. That's what I see. And there is no way in fuck I can do justice to that story. I've already cheapened it with a simple description. Because I don't think about the story when I write. I think about the people reading it. I don't lose myself in the words, I lose myself in the thought of my words will affect people. And that just doesn't work. Not for stories. Maybe for reporting.
But that's ok. I look forward to going to sleep at night, to tuning in to worlds that don't exist yet, or which haven't existed for eons. I look forward to the beauty I would never get to see otherwise, and I let it nourish me. I'm too selfish a person to be able to give birth, as it were, to the potential out there. But I can appreciate the ability in others. Lord knows, the boxes and boxes of books in my house are a silent testimony to my love of these privileged folk who can do what I can't.
Comments
Post a Comment