Starting Point
by uriel
Silence fills the spaces that need filling. It leeches detail from those that don't. It is a substance in some ways, flowing and swirling around the ankles of sensation in slow and steady beats of a distant heart.
Darkness without, darkness within, in other words.
Deep in the folds and foolish flipperies of the brain itself, life walks with quiet feet through memory and imagination. It ponderously strides through childhood, clinging impressions and
imprications trying to bind its steps. Among the bright reveries of today about tomorrow, sunlight and shadow, hope and wishes curl and float like champaign bubbles to bouy the unsteady footsteps.
A forest of voices sing and sigh among the sloughing branches of understanding. Those things that are made of the shards and sharp edges, hidden curves and gentle details, are bound in a great choir called personality. Weakness and strength, free of the recriminations of outside perspectives, dance stately turns as their common ground is linked symbolically by the held hands of self. Enemy holds no meaning, opposition doesn't exist in the play of subtle against subtle which can only be seen as a whole.
A great, endless cast of characters play against this setting, falling and rising from the roiling clouds that are the subconscious. Birthed and born of impulse, from the fierce fires of living's call to flesh, each wears a face that is an echo of the other. Strained or twisted, stripped to essences or illuminated to unearthly perfection, they all peer with the same eyes. Speak with the same timbred tones, each recite their lines in the same play, stumble across the same stage.
From time to time fleeting, flickering faces rise and twist insubstantial as flame reflected in ice. Muttering words, distant voices slip in whispering winds through the images. Their touch often altering that which it touches, like an ocean's history played in a moment of evolution. Those Outside, from without, ride dim and dark currents through the mind in disturbing, earth shrugging images.
But the night winds on, clockwork perfection untainted by considerations of time. Here eternity is lord over all passages, forever the name of the moment.
For Dreams know nothing of seconds.
