Daydreams

    Daydreaming.  There I find out what I should have become, what I should have done.  This make believe place that allows me to throw the dizzying array of  curses at my boss or co-worker as they smile snidely past me as they speak.   This place that allow to reenact the scenes that haunt me.  Words, motions, colors, where I was and how they stood and all of this to help bury the shame, frustration,  and pain that crawls up the back of the throat when the mind wanders that direction when not sufficiently occupied with the menial tasks of the day.  Come with me and take the place of me on my latest daydream.


    Eventually the mind either by force of thought or suffering from the torrents of terrible daily grind.  The need for some escape for the deeper part of the soul seeks it way from the Tomb that we have sealed it in.   The marker of which is guarded by the three headed lawyer, Need, Want, and Desire. His pin stripped suit the so many colors of hate and self loathing, with his three heads bobbing around fighting for position to see you with each one of his six eyes. He holds the key to the gate made from the bones of dreams abandoned by logic to fulfill the legal wishes of our minds.
    The Lawyer asks you for your reason to visit the entombed?  You say, ‘To set it free.  It screams to me, through the mist that escape the ground around the Gates of Broken Dreams‘.  He laughs at you, and asks again, ‘What is your reason for visiting the entombed?’  You looked into Desire’s eyes, and say, ‘I seek my soul to hear what I wanted to hear, what I remember my heart telling me so many years ago when my desires did not take on the suit of logic and order.’  Want laughs at you, the other heads fold back to allow the Want, full use of the only set of lungs the body has.  ‘You desire it free, but you want not for nothing for freedom yourself do you not? ‘ You say, ‘I do seek my souls freedom’.  Want’s smile sickly reaches to both sides of it face and he says, ‘You desire Soul to be free, yet you bound it in chains when you sought lies and passions over virtue did you not?’  Wants’ head rotates back to allow Desires throat to engage the lungs of the body and he said, ‘Did you not desire a wage, a hand in marriage, a house, a car, clothes to cover you, food to feed you, a job,’ ‘STOP’ you yell.  Desire continues, ‘Really?’ it questions one of the bodies arms flies up and grabs sick yellow hair of Desire’s skull and yanks it to one side, Want’s wicked gleam slides itself onto the throat, ‘So, what is it that you want?’  The hand comes back to force the head to move aside, and Desire’s flesh reconnects to the neck of the body, ‘What desire commands this?’ You weakly say, ‘I need it done.’  A dark grimace forms on the Desires’ brow, ’You Need it?’.  The hand wrenched at the sides of Desires’ face Want slid into place, looking carefully at you it asks, ’You Need it?’  ’Yes,’ this strange groan from your throat turns into a yell again, ’I Need it.’ Want looks at you, and feeling the need of the key that the other hand held on a sickly soiled ribbon,  The hand with the key gently moves up and pushes the Want off the throat,  Need stairs at you with weak eyes, weak eyes but with a strange glow.  No gesture, no speaking the hand with the key holds it out for you to take.
    It feels strangely light as you walk towards the gate the ribbon seemed moist and flowing,  The key seem to glisten the strange light of the tombs gate, it looks like congealed sweat in the shape of a weirdly formed key, the ribbon leaves a red trail blood behind everything that it touches, it is warm and soft to your fingers.  Raising the key and it’s ribbon closer to your eyes.  On the side of the key small words imprinted on it strange surface, “Manufactured by You”.  With odd and puzzled look, your flip the ribbon over, “Made by You”.  Again puzzled you reach the gate. 
    There you see a mass of bone like fragments glistening with images of houses, the faces of people, fancy cars, paychecks, sounds of laughter from one rail, and sounds of nature from a different one.   Some of the images you remember clearly, and some not so.  Touching the bone like parts the smooth unbroken surface seamless in perfection up to the point where it was violently fractured, broken by some vicious strike.  Some of the bone fragments turned black, they emitted not sounds and no images left their splintered edges.  The splinter edges tangled up into the shattered edges of another, each piece carefully place to build stout gate over a small stairway down into the Tomb.
    Looking for the lock you see a hole about the size of a tear drop in one of the bone like fragments,  gently you slide the key into the teardrop hole and turn it.   The sweat of the key flashes over the gate illuminating all the shattered facets of the bones.  Slowly the blood ribbon is drawn into the gate traveling down some form of vessels the bones gain color of muscles and then flesh reforming flexing and trying to move joints that are now fused,  the all the sounds emanating from each fragment have now turned into a deafening hum, the sounds of laughter is lost against the collective roar of each fragmented dream gaining some of its life back.  The seat stones of the hinges shatter throwing the gate and you into the air.


The grotesque structure lay in pieces around you, the bone fragments that gain your sweat and blood had broken the tears that bonded the broken dreams together.  The blood and sweat seeps and pools around the last of the dying dreams and the bone like fragments begin to appear as the flesh melts away from them.  You feel some sorrow for the fragments, some of which go back to emitting pleasant sounds of laughter, and the such.  You get to your feet, and turn towards the now unblocked stair well.  You take a very deep breath, and step in.




                To be continued

Memories

In my search for new beginnings, I have found that my mind leads me to places that have distinct endings. Some of these places are the physical places that have a point of memory of an event that marked and end of emotion, but I do not remember what it was that ended.
In the back recesses of my memory, small points of light sing out to me as I think of these places. As I approach them, the colors, smells, and textures come into clearer focus playing out a macabre distorting facsimile of a distant reality. I see the faces of past friends and family as they once where, with the current mares of the present tingeing their skin and eyes. Pain that wasn’t there now appears as I try to remember that point, remember what it was that was so important; and why it was seared into my memory to leave me these haunted recollections that fuzz over with time. Details that I failed to notice then, become clearer now, subtle hand motions of a girl friend about to kiss me for the first time, the fire in the eyes of a friend finding out how hard my fist could be slamming against the side of his face. The strange wonderment of my eyes glinting in the mirror as I felt my heart for the first time, breaking under the weight of another’s hand clenching at it, tearing at it, with distant words of a poetic lines of break up. I see these points as they come into few and slide by some pushing into others confusing the picture. Actors of one memory sneaking into the stage of another casting lines that lack sense or actions that damage the memory and change the meaning of its logic to me.
The lack of clarity at these deranged points of memory, showing truly no connections to each other but tied together through the sapping strength of emotions attached to each one. The anger of insult in one, wraps in the anger of dismay of another, no contingency of time or space actually connecting them, now they are conjoined by that one trigging point. They orbit each other repeating again and again in my mind, I feel my pulse harden my skin grow cold as they mesh and morph into another memory, ones locked away deeply, the point of its light so distant and weak I can’t reach but now grows brighter and brighter. The deep green color and sharp tendrils of grass piercing my shirt, cool summer night air illuminated by the strange orange glow of argon lamps, the sweet smell of soft skin touching the my lips, catching of breath, then the sounds of cars. The pleasure seeping away, fading into the background the light fading again, the grass turns warm sand, weird desert skies replace the cool night air, the cars change into a fast moving thunder head crashing down upon the waters of desert lake, hot to cold, bright to dark, cascading to together and then fading out with the wind of a dying desert thunderstorm. Yet I stand reaching for what was pleasant, seeking out pleasure to find it connected to sympathy, and pain. The cycle of one birthing again in memory fades in death to birth another point.
Do moments not connect to one another without any real flow, we are constantly moving from a potential point of light in the chasm of memory to another, where they will either burn intensely or quietly, painful to pleasure, the gathering of each point seems to be lost. Do I begin as anew from a cut line of a director calling for actors to move on cue for certain actions to make perfectly round package that can easily be understood and allow us to sleep without the fear of strange reconciliations of our memories? When do I count the end, as the director of these weird puppet shows play out twisting in my mind, does my memory show its weakness when the points fade, as I hide each and everyone of them behind layers and layers of blackness to keep them from reaching me again.
Pain of regret stings me the most, I stare at myself in a mirror that once stood years ago, and I scream and claw at the shade of me, “Stand up! Do something!” hearing nothing the image fades, morphing into another point the fills the mind with colors of painted cinderblocks of the long hallway filled with people and me hurting for some reason, hurting from wounds inflicted to my pride, the convictions of my violence slipping away. Hate. I think? One maybe others, the sounds that their distorted faces make, still sound not clear, but still there, quietly behind me, quietly. Strange urges, run, laugh, retort…fight. There they stand, in all their glory of school aged children believing themselves men, lining up to show a front against another. The point fades again, the anger changes as the inventions of my own mind complete the memory the way it should have been, the way I should have been, that regret, that pain, the anger fuels it, the director yells action, my hands move, I wish I could have felt their flesh break under mine, the thought riles me to pleasure. But alas, I turned away, I left them, I left them mocking, I left them standing their fueling their pride at the cost of mine, at the cost of my memory being complete, leaving me with regret that I didn’t loose a fight in stance of years of hiding it behind a guise of composer of non activating hate… Do I begin it again? Do I live it again in some dream later, as I have done over and over, that sense of regret, that person that was once me in that mirror, that long ago mirror that I have destroyed hoping to have that point fade, fade to nothing against the every present back drop of memory…