You sleep and dream and ideas take form.
The forms of women you loved,
of others you desired,
and yet others you rejected.
The half naked bodies, teasing you, merging into one ideal form,
whose features shift and change each time a wave hits the beach you are standing on.
The sun soars, for in your dream he can and will obey poetry rather than the Cartesian dictatorship. So it soars, far, far above. You are alone, for it is a dream, and the woman is of no importance any more.
Your feet push into the fine white sand. The water licks around them, overcoming the slight rise of sand your weight has created. The water is cold.
Perhaps in the reality, so far away, your feet have escaped the confines of the blankets. Perhaps.
But you ignore it. The water raises to meet your desire to be submerged, and fish and dolphins are flying above you, free.
The silvery bellies of the Seabass reflect a light that keeps spinning. You loose yourself in the moment.
You need to exhale, but fear you will drown, and then, yet again, the body, outside the dream takes over, and as you exhale, a relief spreads inside the sea, before deciding to turn into dread, as you start to inhale water. But your lungs breathe effortlessly the salty liquid. It is a joy so intense that you forget everything, you loose yourself in the water.
When you resurface, the clouds have returned to plague you. You instantly are dry, you instantly are lost in a maddening crowd, that is walking around you, pressing you, bumping against you. They are endless, faceless, with suits of grey or brown. There is no woman in red. Just these faceless drones.
The rain starts falling horizontally, and the pedestrians, in response, start walking vertically on the walls, fleeing the droplets by ascending on the buildings' walls, climbing upwards, overcoming the clouds in their haste to escape the rain. Newton can join Cartesius in shutting the fuck up.
In a moment you are alone in the depressing, flickering street light. No cars are moving, there is no wind, and the rain has abated. You are in Pireus, a city you visited when younger, and realising that, you walk towards the diner where you used to play role playing games.
You pass abandoned shop after abandoned shop, and they all seem to be selling newspapers and dirty magazines, with ladies with huge tits on the cover, all naked, yet in no way desirable. When you look at them, their faces change to bare distorted teeth, their bodies turn fat, with triple chins, and folds all over. You start running.
By the seaside you realise that the water has turned into tar. A black vastness upon which you can see no reflection. All the people that had vanished are bellow its dark surface. All the strangers. All the people you have ever cared for. Your grandfather, with his Charlie Chaplin moustache, and his withered muscles that seemed to be tortuously stretched on his bones. Your cousin, with her bald head after the chemo. Then your exes, and the friends that used to share your life. All there. Your parents, older than they are now, their teeth rotten, their eye sockets empty, staying hugged in a loving, yet sad, embrace. You cannot see anyone but you know that below the tar, everything you ever loved or could have loved, lies.
And you look back, and the city is old and destroyed, nature taking back its rightful due, trees erupting from amongst stopped cars, and from inside the buildings, wolves howling in the darkness. You are afraid, and you know that once again you fear your own mortality.
Realising that brings a flicker to the world. For a moment your room in Paris superimposes itself on this grim world. And then the moment is gone and the dream is gone, and you are naked under the blanket in Paris, in your apartment, on the sofa, alone. It is 3 or 4 in the morning, and you lie there awake, and this reality seems more frightening than the dream. You are thirsty.
The forms of women you loved,
of others you desired,
and yet others you rejected.
The half naked bodies, teasing you, merging into one ideal form,
whose features shift and change each time a wave hits the beach you are standing on.
The sun soars, for in your dream he can and will obey poetry rather than the Cartesian dictatorship. So it soars, far, far above. You are alone, for it is a dream, and the woman is of no importance any more.
Your feet push into the fine white sand. The water licks around them, overcoming the slight rise of sand your weight has created. The water is cold.
Perhaps in the reality, so far away, your feet have escaped the confines of the blankets. Perhaps.
But you ignore it. The water raises to meet your desire to be submerged, and fish and dolphins are flying above you, free.
The silvery bellies of the Seabass reflect a light that keeps spinning. You loose yourself in the moment.
You need to exhale, but fear you will drown, and then, yet again, the body, outside the dream takes over, and as you exhale, a relief spreads inside the sea, before deciding to turn into dread, as you start to inhale water. But your lungs breathe effortlessly the salty liquid. It is a joy so intense that you forget everything, you loose yourself in the water.
When you resurface, the clouds have returned to plague you. You instantly are dry, you instantly are lost in a maddening crowd, that is walking around you, pressing you, bumping against you. They are endless, faceless, with suits of grey or brown. There is no woman in red. Just these faceless drones.
The rain starts falling horizontally, and the pedestrians, in response, start walking vertically on the walls, fleeing the droplets by ascending on the buildings' walls, climbing upwards, overcoming the clouds in their haste to escape the rain. Newton can join Cartesius in shutting the fuck up.
In a moment you are alone in the depressing, flickering street light. No cars are moving, there is no wind, and the rain has abated. You are in Pireus, a city you visited when younger, and realising that, you walk towards the diner where you used to play role playing games.
You pass abandoned shop after abandoned shop, and they all seem to be selling newspapers and dirty magazines, with ladies with huge tits on the cover, all naked, yet in no way desirable. When you look at them, their faces change to bare distorted teeth, their bodies turn fat, with triple chins, and folds all over. You start running.
By the seaside you realise that the water has turned into tar. A black vastness upon which you can see no reflection. All the people that had vanished are bellow its dark surface. All the strangers. All the people you have ever cared for. Your grandfather, with his Charlie Chaplin moustache, and his withered muscles that seemed to be tortuously stretched on his bones. Your cousin, with her bald head after the chemo. Then your exes, and the friends that used to share your life. All there. Your parents, older than they are now, their teeth rotten, their eye sockets empty, staying hugged in a loving, yet sad, embrace. You cannot see anyone but you know that below the tar, everything you ever loved or could have loved, lies.
And you look back, and the city is old and destroyed, nature taking back its rightful due, trees erupting from amongst stopped cars, and from inside the buildings, wolves howling in the darkness. You are afraid, and you know that once again you fear your own mortality.
Realising that brings a flicker to the world. For a moment your room in Paris superimposes itself on this grim world. And then the moment is gone and the dream is gone, and you are naked under the blanket in Paris, in your apartment, on the sofa, alone. It is 3 or 4 in the morning, and you lie there awake, and this reality seems more frightening than the dream. You are thirsty.
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