Presence
Occultation
For the longest time I would go to bed early. Sometimes, while staring at an empty ceiling or at the pages of a book, my eyes would close so quickly that I wouldn't even have the time to think "I'm going to sleep." An hour later the thought that it was time to go to sleep would awaken me; I would try to put away the book which was still in my hands, before drifting again into the sea of forgetfulness; I would become or bring with me, while asleep, the subject of what I had just been reading or grasping at the time, my thoughts would then run into a channel of their own.
A warrior, a scholar, a general, a scientist, an heroic philosopher, a prophet. A flower, a glass, a sword. This impression would persist for some moments after I was awake; before time itself would lay its scales upon my eyes, preventing me from remembering whichever lesson.
And so and so, night after night, I followed through different existences; reawakening from the darkness, pleasant for the mind, in a cycle of reincarnation.
But now, as the years have gone by, my relationship with dreams has become more Platonic. All pleasure is taken at the expense of sleep, to the point that even the simple act of dreaming has become a nuisance. If dreams are memories given a fleeting permanence, it follows that we must dream to remember something dear... or to regret.
I wave my arm above my head, carefully crafting incisions of fire with my fingers until the lie fits my desire like a glove. A single blue flower blooms, and for an instant the almost too empty shell shines with the simulacrum of creation.
Outside the large glass windows of the cottage it's snowing again. She coughs, and I'm already by her side, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder until she's calmed down.
For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health...
I leave the flower in her lap, but I can't face the look in her eyes. Because we both know.
But she smiles, "D, honey. Did something happen to you? You're so forgetful"
And I sleep.
failure
Draft this Post
