First thing on my mind when I woke up was dreams, but those illusive little critters, whatever, whoever, wherever they are, slipped right through my thoughts and escaped. I know they are around somewhere, floating through the dust, probably hovering at the corners… you know, something you see at the corner of your vision, but when you turn your head, it’s gone. You wonder if your eyes play tricks, your imagination.
And now I am here, in total, wondering what to write, why I can’t when my hands are itching across the keyboard, my eyes guarding each word as it appears upon the screen.
Read a beautiful blog today — it contains fish, montages of life and a hoard of wonderful stories of faded pictures and sketches and songs whose translations are obscene.
It is called, appropriately enough, Excavations linked to my Ca’ancartti notebook — if you rifle through the pages, you will find it.
It’s a self-mindf**k, I think, wanting to write down everything, but saying nothing, just ramblings and outlines that go nowhere and self-doubt that catches on the edge of a deep well, stumbles, falls and falls and falls. There is no splash because there is no bottom.
If I became an acrobat on the way down, I could twist and turn and open my eyes. It is very light at the top, a tiny circle of brightness. My arms swing upward without direction, my hands grasping desperately; the light is energy, it stings my hands like burning rope, but I claw at it, hoist myself upward — remember, I have become an acrobat on the way down. I have used the safety net and bounced myself up, high, through the circle of light and into the open air.
I can breathe.
I can think.
I can feel the dark silence around me, warm, but I refuse to leave the light that has captured me. Now I want to dream of flying. I want to re-visit my old dreams, remake them, tell them who I am… to write them into life.
(cross-posted at Redroom)