I have long ago graduated, whether through will or through desire, I do not know, from viewing my dreams as symbols, or as prophecy, or as self-consolations, idealised simulacrum of future intimacies, a nether recreation of what is no longer possible. In short I do not think of them as being much more than patchwork arrangements, regurgitations, however dynamic, of thoughts which accompany subconscious flows of chaotic memory, and visual frames drawn carelessly, like birds in a trawler's net, in the periphery of one's mind.
But the strange thing is that dreams have a certain power, an insidious draw, over the consciousness. The old things have this power, commonly called nostalgia, which the tides of memory, from deep, unremembered waters, cast upon one's shores. Dreams of a colour and timbre recognised by the soul of one's consciousness, through which a strange, ectoplasmic attachment forms, pensive wisps of spider-web streaked with morning dew.
I feel that unsettled gravity, after I dream, clouds of something not-quite-anxiety mark my horizon, as a furtive animal senses a thunderstorm. I search my thoughts and do not know. Suspicion, some inner decision, not quite resolved conflict, I do not want to revisit. Fight, I fight it, by the cold light of day, blinding will.
water returned to the sea, cold, purposeful water,
water of crystal poplar and unnamed desire,
undercurrent winding in repressed agony, vengeful dance.
Thursday, July 22, 2021
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