One Who Wanders (abiona) wrote,
One Who Wanders

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if you sleep through your 8 a.m. class, you get dreams like this

I started out as a childish being, one who demanded and yelled, a person who was not satisfied with my (small) home or the world around me. I remember observing a dance rehearsal once, where the director and his assistant were complaining about having to label everything to get anyone in the ensemble to remember what they were supposed to do. I saw it all through a window in the door, and when I wished the director good luck, he laughed at me.

Time must have passed after this, for everyone thought I had died. All I could remember of this so-called "death" was water. When I came back, when I searched for specific things, people around me reared back in surprise, dropping what they were carrying, becoming unable to think. And I smiled, knowing how much their shock blinded them to the true situation.

There were sketches everywhere. Someone was watching us.

I resolved not to let the observations stop me, and well aware that I would be seen, I went back to the rehearsal with a sketchbook in hand. Things had progressed beyond their intitial stages at this point, and one man found his role in this dance unjustly usurped by another. He appealed to the other dancers, but none took his side. I decided that I whether "she" had or not, I had drawn enough betrayal to suit my tastes; I followed his staggering form outside of the hall and down the stairwell.

I held him closely as he wept, his arms constricting around me. Like a snake, he wanted to know what caused my sorrow, an emotional inquiry that went into the depths of my heart's city and left him exhausted. As he walked on in a daze devoid of acceptance, I turned my attention to the woman who came down the stairs behind me.

"It happens to you too, doesn't it?," I asked, already knowing the answer. "You know it's going to end. Your vision, your reality ... it blurs sometimes ... sometimes just a bit, yet sometimes so much you can hardly tell where you are going." She could hardly believe that she was nodding; she could not stop me from joining her in a mock action of friendship. I wasn't really her friend ... I simply had to find a way to make people like me understand, before "she" got to them.

Just because everything is going to end doesn't mean that you can stop. That's laziness, that's cowardliness. You must keep going forward and find a new way. That's what my sorrow tried to tell him, what he could not handle.
Tags: dream writing

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