I dream long nights away to other fortunes. Like the sweat from arduous journeys; the scenes twist my fears and desires into macabre premises. Relentlessly I forge ahead through lucid expressions of guilt or joy painting memories from reality. Awakening between here and there leaves me rigid within the breath of now.
It’s here I’m an artist. I paint without brushes, write with my thoughts, or make love with my mind satisfying the worlds desire to consume me. This is a battle in a war that has waged within my souls since dreams were born.
I’m no warrior or epic lover conquering my ego, more of an observer of possibilities yet realized. Here, in the safety of the subconscious I see the world through my eyes. No filters to color people or anoint my belief. Here I’m human and true to something beyond reality.
Like the child stoically looking through the rear window of a car as it slowly drives through the fog of gray leaving something behind that will never be found, I’m outside of myself, divorced from the nature of my silence by layers of understanding.
These are silent films. Noise is expressed through colorful scenes and emotions. I know the colors that represent the set, but I’m smart enough to leave that pallet on the shelf, so as not to hinder the meanings I want myself to feel. Color gets in the way of feeling the meanings, like emotions mask the lovers affair with herself.
Dreamers speak of awakenings as if the morning won’t return to day and put to rest the nights toil. We live in an awakening of denial that all we see, all we feel, our entire existence is nothing more than an awakening to self; we always know.
In the end we are a dream. We are a history. Most importantly we are here as a possibility. The most import part of that possibility isn’t food, family, or fortunes. The most important part of that possibility is shaped by those hours spent in another reality realizing fears or conjuring desires that shape tomorrow behind the scrim of now. It’s here monsters and miracles share meanings and myths.