Every Little Thing Letter

We woke up in an impossible dream, then dreamt in confirmation. Even now a chill runs over and through me as I write. My substance is unreliable, my disposition altered. Reality and time are as jumbled in my brain as the thick wood I passed through today. Every calling of being and individualism twisted around each other, choking out truth. I can only call back to Descartes famous words, to keep me grounded in humanity. This world is a mist, mocking a sunless day.
To recall the events of today-if that is the right word, it seems days can lapse to years here; time is immeasurable- is only a pursuit to keep my head straight, and out of the depths of Eliot’s desert. I will keep it in a symphony of sequence.
Before the darkness, there was a life-one I can only recall as a dream slipping through the cracks upon waking. There was something before my arrival here, in this strange world, but it is as clear and distinguishable as a shadow in the corner of one’s eye in a foggy cloud-blocked night. What is clear is that it seems like I was born-so to speak-today in the leaf damped dirt in the middle of an impossible wood.
My first gaze was upon Mother’s face. She was dressed in a cloak of trees and decorated in relics of my womb- my past faintly remembered, held up as a welcome sign. At first I simply laid upon Her bosom of dirt, but just as a nightmare suddenly ends I was jerked awake to full attention. I could feel the twigs and damp leaves pressed under my palms as I leaned on them in my surprise upon waking.
One could easily confuse this Nature as our true Mother, but the giveaway was the jewelry littering Her cloths like a gypsy. There was a path- a small path- beside me as if I was thrown off the skin of my world in a gutter, my feet the only part lying on the path. I slowly got up and instinctively started on this narrow path-finding my footing on uncertain sea legs so it seemed. The litter on Mother’s cloths sent awareness into my heart like a shock of static on a door handle. Trees. Weeds. Leaves. All covered with fragments of my life; broken clocks half-remembered, resonating a whispered “tick-tock” in my subconscious. I have heard you speak. Candles half burned, some still burning, others completely melted past wick. I have seen you bright. Mirrors, artwork, and picture frames- You have seen this face before.
As I continued to walk through the whispers and mists of my mind, suddenly and without reservation a light pierced the wood and flooded into my eyes, and just as suddenly as it appeared it was gone-like a dream. The light did not leave without impression though, once the light pressed itself against my eyes and sipped through my window- it left me with an unquenchable desire-to run. Like feet dangling over the side of a cliff, when you are told to not look down, so inevitably that is what you do, and a shock of fear runs through you-and all your body wants to do. Is. Run.
So I ran. I Ran through the path, until the path was overrun with briars and thick brush, so I ran through that, branches clawing at me trying to pull me back. Back to the cliffs edge. They would not have me. Through my frantic running I came upon a small pond to catch my breath fear was still surging through me like a wild river. And in the midst of catching my breath in the current, I was again hit by the light like a torrent of rain; though fear was still a wild river I was now baptized in a curious mixture of joy and sorrow- As if I was running toward something I knew would be the rest of me, but I would also lose something near to me. Fear, Joy and Sorrow were flowing through my veins, like rushes of water through crevices in the skin of earth. I ran, and kept running.
It was in a clearing that I suddenly and without warning came across two others. They seemed to have my same manner of enthusiasm for the race, and it seemed- from the looks on their faces, the same reasons for it. We looked at each other cautiously, silently. The first one I saw, had hair like fire burning in the twilight, endless curls of roses curiously painted, too, across her lips. The second one I saw had blond-wind swept hair and a fierce pounding behind his eyes. Still silent, we all moved cautiously toward each other; as if testing our own and each other’s reality.
Before I had the courage and confidence to speak; she spoke. Clean, pure words trickled out of a garden and formed a hybrid between whisper, revelation and question that trembled through the heavy air. “The light?” None of us moved, we were just as confused towards the light as we were towards each other. Finally, something leapt out of my mouth without my conscious permission, like a primal scream: “Yes.” I said this simply, but in the act itself of speaking brought to full fruition again the three overcoming feelings I had when I saw the light. The blond-hair gentleman repeated my peace, but with what seemed to be more control. So as strangers, drawn together on some line cast to the sea, we went. Answering the call. One step closer.
After walking for what seemed to be all day-time is not as measurable here as the driving clocks and cadence of before-we lied down on a sea of towering, dry weeds and drifted aimlessly, aimlessly under the skin of consciousness.
At first there was nothing. Absence. A great bounding, black ocean swirling before my eyes. Then, the light. A subtle illumination. Softly bleeding along the edges of my ocean. Then memory. Like a flash. Like the flash. I then recalled in the deeper part of the ocean the call, and I remembered- without consciousness, but with full capacity that flash. The flash. The light. I remembered the flash was drawing me, like the tint of a firefly in the summer’s heat. In the unreasonable contradiction, it is not the heat that swallows the firefly, but the fire burning inside of me that consumes in remembrance at the mere memory of the flash. That subtle illumination.
Does any of this mean anything? Or is our brief existence in this impossible place just as much as an illusion as what I passed through in my dream last night. I still remember my life before this, very faintly, as if it were a dream that is now escaping my grasp and becoming mist in my memory; with the sun rising fast.
I haven’t told them about my life, the two of them, I’m sure they have their own story to tell. I’m sure. But perhaps the sun has already eclipsed their night terrors -that strange old existence before the rapture into this present.

Every Little Thing Letter Part 2: The dream

I honestly don’t think we want to admit the dream we had last night, if it was a dream at all. A shared experience in lapsing consciousness after the edges of my ocean bled and the swirling blackness formed and forged a mirror. A reflection. Staring back was chopped bits of yesterday, standing in sequence, aligning inside.
I know we all dreamt of how we got here yesterday-the waking in the woods, the walking through the litter of our pasts to the clearing- but instead of finding the clearing and just walking toward the light through the endless weeds and trees, we were confronted with something from our past lives that we had to leave behind, a relic of our old existence that we had to sacrifice in order to continue.
In the dream we threw the items in the fire, and immediately felt the dream’s reality unraveling; Our lives reversing, until we awoke in the very spot we had settled down to rest after the long walk. It was morning, and so we gathered ourselves and continued on the journey-but the feeling of the dream hasn’t left me, and probably hasn’t left them either. It felt like I defeated something inside myself that was holding me back, but holding me back from what?
I hope I never completely forget it, as much as I am beginning to forget my life before this. I must not forget that dream-the feeling- that moment where I- and where we- was no longer held back. From inside myself. This is just the beginning, the topsoil of a much deeper trench. More digging to come. When I look ahead I can feel progress, but with it the fear of change. My change. Our change into what we don’t know. This sojourn yields the possibility of never going back. Changing to what we can’t see. Changing every part of me, and every little thing with it. I know we can only now just follow the light, maybe then we will find our way back.
Day 1- Beginnings