Writing Into the Mystery

I fall into a twilight sleep, the edges of darkness flit between my pupils and lids. I want to merge into my next story. My next dream of a story. My mind fights the entrance into a swerving world, where diamond treetops lead me to clouded mountains and turn into streets of cascading water, or oceans splattering between space and time. I am transported into another reality, another consciousness where everything is topsy-turvy like Alice in Wonderland, the world of Oz and Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. I dreamt last night that a great rose spoke to me, whispered its secret metamorphosis in my ear, painted itself a yellow-red and dripped across the sky. Then from behind the stars a road opened that led to a deserted alley. Garbage and heaps of clothes were thrown away and hung over the edges of rooftops. I am in this dream. I wonder, where am I? What does this dream have to tell me about my journey, myself? Do I need to clothe my naked soul with layers to protect myself, or undress until every last ounce of blood covers my organs? I am diving with each dream, deeper and deeper into the vault, the life behind the curtain, where another dimension lives, another way of being human dreams about planet Earth. The place where we humans dream of Nirvana. Does epiphany truly live behind the veil of dreams that adorns my psyche? Each dream shows me the way back home to the endless spirit that eternally creates my life, past lives and future lives. I drive along a dark road, where no lights live. Eyes stare out at me from behind shadowy leaves and darkened light. I see those eyes staring at me, and I stare back at them. We both wonder: Do I know you? Am I you? Can we relate on any level? Can we dance together into a world that you and I create together? Is there such a thing as a destination? Maybe there is no destination, only dreams, upon dreams, upon dreams of reality that aren't real. It is all illusion, the gurus say. Then who am I? Am I only dreaming when I write? Does each person that I meet and stares me straight in the eye truly know who they are staring at? Does the person who looks away, finds distractions to make them feel safe, to not be seen or heard...do they know why they are so frightened to lock into a stare with me? Or maybe we are both afraid to enter into another dream. A projection of the other that creates a false self or reveals the true self filled with demons. Can we truly know the other? Dreams are tunnels, doorways, potholes, black holes that lead us into places in ourselves that we purposely ignore. Dreams tell us stories of ancient tales buried deep in our subconscious. And yet, our dreams will never leave us, never go away. They are attached to us like skin; they are the skin of our psyche. They are death to the body and life to the spirit and imagination. Dreams, dreams, dreams. I walk into layers of melting snow that turn to sleet, that turn to water, then evaporate. I lust after my dreams. They make me run after myself, make me hunger after God and life; neverending, passion, breath, and then I am gone. Once upon a time…I had a dream...