Both sides of the veil
The empty pocket of perplexity was not what I wanted it to be in my escape plan where the 4am mosquito shadow was shaping up like a bad dream I was afraid to go back to sleep with.
And then I thought, maybe it’s someone else’s bad karma that had seeped into my dreaming and had insinuated itself into the landscape of my making and I’d been taken in by it to believe it was mine.
I’d woken up trying to un-attach myself from some nameless fear, some scary darkness, and as I lay there attuning myself to my surroundings I came to myself and mastered the fear and told myself what I needed to hear in the confines of the room so early in the morning.
I don’t remember my dreams normally, I come out of dreaming and let them go and become whatever reality I’m thinking, and by the time I’ve found out where I am the dreams have slipped away out of mind, and no matter how rich or poor the dreaming was, nothing of it remains when I’m awake.
Except if I have a bad dream and then some vestige of it hangs around with a cord of fear clinging to me so that I feel there’s something palpably disquieting in the room with me.
It takes a good bit of self-talking to get out of bed and walk to the light-switch and turn the light on so I can search around, and under the bed to see with my eyes that there’s really nothing in the room with me but me.
I tell myself to stop, because there’s always another door it might be hiding behind. So I tell myself this, but is it just my mind playing tricks, to scare me and perpetuate something that’s not real?
I’d escaped from my dreaming to awake with some nameless fear that I had to master. If it was someone else’s dark heart intruding into my sleep then it could be banished back to where it came from and a barrier could then be set up to keep it out and I could drift off back to sleep.
But if it was a primeval fear from my own subconscious then that’s another matter and something I’d have to deal with on a whole another level, because there’s one thing I like more than anything else when my head hits the pillow and that’s a good night’s sleep.
But in these corridors of comprehension and forgetting where my soul journeys through the short stories it tells itself it seems there is more to learn, and perhaps I am not yet awake enough to remember what my dreaming would tell me.
The dreams are there even if I don’t remember them, they are never lost and they will come to me when I need them the most, at least that’s what my higher self tells me.
Here in a relationship desperately wanting, your memory some figment now, slipping into the long ago where all memories are subjective of all the times remembered and then passed on to the next time until the colour becomes a dark mixed up paste of all that’s gone where only the heart can recall true, and then even that becomes an old photograph fading.
And if one day it was to fall out from between the pages of some dusty book and someone picked it up to say: “who is this?” and no one would know.
Whatever lasts forever it is not that.
Sewing the words of your feeling into my heart, you came so close to where I was feeling too much; but the stone remains, so I stepped back out of reach, and then you were gone again, leaving me with the thoughts that whisper your name if they could but say it.
And then this becomes a memory that I carry down through the time. And as the years pass I wish for you again and again and try to find you where we last met. But the key to that door is a pain I can’t bear again, though I carry it with me.
And so half-heartedly I call to you and grow weary of ever finding you again even though I know you’re closer than anything, but the wall of thinking stands in the way and I can find no way past; such a strange dream where I am neither here nor there.
In the huge sorrow of this missing you I find nothing matters and I can find no heart to go on, and yet go on I must along the stepping road stone of separation.
What hurt is this that calls from the centre out and listens not to the words of comfort, that no drug, no philosophy or any healing hand can cure?
When the heart can bear no more of this world it shuts down, and until it is come home to there can be no peace; but when the heart calls so loud the pain of separation the very universe pays heed, and that which listens must grant audience to such a call; but that which has gone cannot be brought back.
All is a dream without you.
I shall listen to the wind then that calls me to come home, but home is nowhere to be found in the searching. I have gone this way and that to find it but have now lost my appetite to search anymore and I wonder why I ever tried so hard.
So the dreaming comes and goes and I am left in the day to wander as I will until I can come to sleep again to find some release, and who knows but maybe in the dream it is where we find each other, if only I could remember which side of the veil is the dream and if any of it is of my making.
But maybe this is all just some backyard of the spirit where only the broken go with their love-lost pieces of haunting that forever hold them in the circles of their doom.
But sometimes you bring something interesting back that gives you a clue....
end of part one
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