dreaming

photo by David-Stewart11_1

Dream by day or night I wonder is it me who dreams or the dreams having me?

All records are disposed filling Naperville, Illinois landfill. Though I could and do blame the source of my despair I refuse since in time it became obvious that all I’d achieved was nothing but a screed shouting anguish against what is life’s fate: transitory passage from whence to when it ends.

I’ve had a fabulous life demarcated by nothing so much as travel through space; unconscious until now. Remembering some dreams that bewildered me; their myth, omen, portent and symbol alluding me not illuminating the what and why of my consciousness.

Then too there were and remain and will be visions inexplicable; entire news clips detailing apocalypse universal or global or personal. Cinematic vignettes impossible to record. Bad dreams? No. Just visions that I could not hold understood.

They too remain, as do the images and words I trashed, unable to integrate or define in ways that made sense of my ordinary/extraordinary life . . . no less or more so than any life . . . just memorable to me. And in some abiding sense remains the issue of what is truth, love, meaning, purpose?

God is like the mother I never had lending me some sense of where to go, what to do and why. Yet like my real mother impossible to contain or appease . . . did I actually say that? Feel that way! Yes.

For all my heart beats soon ending I know I was encased in a vessel. In time coming to say to those who ask; “Do you travel?” Yes. Of course within the riveted aluminum tomb of airplanes and buses; steel cars, trains, ships and now within the flesh and bone transiting light years beyond anything I can define.

Going to the Moon or Mars or flashing beyond the Milky Way laughable since in time with prayer one can see or, at least, sense God.

Becalmed sea wrinkled with cat’s paws, a whiskered breeze, no shore visible. Myself naked between three floating piles of litter added to by seagulls caring more. Flotation. A resting place after limitless swimming? Or was I born there or then?

Pure conjecture: It now seems that all that I sought clinging to was variable and subject to decay. Save only in that love I give is not.

Therefore it is not my problem if the love is inadequate; since like God’s love for us, always there, is absolute but may not be perceptible given the nature of the vessel attempting to hold or contain it.

Just a thought: What sees becomes invisible merging with the all.

Could, can or does this define what I sense is the meaning of: Nothing is for naught?

God. I love playing with my mind; remaining no more consequent than a dandelion. Following on as detritus, myself, now and beginning at birth: a virus or cancer inconvenient wrestling words to convince myself as other; not a cypher more than a grain of sand. Dust floating upon the still soon to be waves colossal.

Yet do I resent being so to others who would profit from my material being. Or would or should I say feed upon me? Blithely expunged as Anne Frank was. Why not take one or two or many in my rage against the blight. Leading others more totally possessed with addiction to revenge. Dancing the fine line between the majority and the fringes; entropy and action. Begging for sanity.

Nothing is fixed all is still in motion.

Have a care for the all, the many, within what and which we exist.

No life is an island.

Conjecture?

Inherent within life itself, not as defined by institution or individual, any one -- or all, seems to speak shattering all my imaging of it or the who. What is the engine of all creation. Available to that which listens.

130119 05:29 dream being
© 2013 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved