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On dreams and false prophecies
5/29/23
Come closer, I want to tell you a secret
I'm not religious by any means
but lately I've been praying for clarity.
Pleading into open space and
towards no one in particular
for understanding
Call it a last resort.
Because while I've tried
deciphering the cards,
the numbers, and the stars,
and pricked my ears to pick up pseudo-prophecies from
overheard bits of stranger's conversations,
the only constant I've found between horoscopes
and bits of graffiti on bathroom walls
is contradiction.
Attempting to tune into the frequency of Truth,
I've begun engaging with the regurgitations of my unconscious;
the dissection of dreams
And whether my extrapolations have hit upon the pulse of something inherent to the dream itself
or whether they were fabricated by Me in the aftermath
is irrelevant
after all, most of the meaning derived from a piece of art comes from its
interpretation
But because the details of a dream are almost immediately forgotten,
I frequently have little more to contemplate on than
a handful of scattered remnants
that hang above my head upon waking
(like pieces of ripped-up polaroids
on a clothesline)
and
a spherical echo in my chest that lingers long after whatever instigated it
has dissipated
It's a sensation
like that of being unable to visualize the face of a childhood friend but
having a clear recollection of what pattern was on their shoes the day you met
or the color of their
laugh
Having plucked the broken shards of my starry visions
from their fragile state of suspension above my bed,
I swaddle them in a baby-blue blanket
woven from the yarn of Disproportionately Attributed Significance and
in the pattern of cliches, archetypes, and pre-established prejudices
With their sharp corners digging into my skin, I cradle the cracked metaphors between my arms
and with my head bent downwards,
reflect upon their countenance
Oh my!
Aren't they lovely when they wear the faces of angels?
Aren't they beautiful when sporting the garments of impending catastrophe?
You always know what to say
You always know how to say it
And I always have so much fun with you
Oh my!
Aren't they superbly proficient at eliciting heart-wrenching sadness?
Aren't they masterful at arousing awe-inspiring fear?
You always know what to say
You always know how to say it
But I feel sick now
And I don't wanna play this game anymore
Cryptically and with calculated transparency,
the pieces begin to unravel themselves and consolidate into a fixed narrative
for the courtesy of my understanding
Last night, the lesson was this;
Perfection exists but
(as a natural consequence of itself)
can never last
And it's alright to lose.