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witchscauldronI stand before a door - a wooden door, not unusual, with a old black iron handle. I lay my right hand upon its surface, and underneath the wood there is a pulse, a running heartbeat that pounds through my hand to my head. The drumming is steady, continuous, and does not stop when I take my hand from the door.
In my hand I hold a key - it is also black iron, like the door handle, but pitted and worn. It is old, and has seen use. It has spoken to me of its' life, of the doors it has opened and locked, of the blacksmith that forged it on his glowing orange hearth. I have held this key a long time, but now I stand facing this ordinary looking door with a heartbeat, and I know it is time to use it and part ways.
I kiss the key as I would a ritual tool, and slowly slide it into the lock. A curious note comes from the lock mechanism - triumphant, sorrowful, keening. It is hard to describe. It is not music, but it is...
The door swells and cracks appear across it. Light spills out from the cracks, blinding me. Soon the door is gone, along with the key,
leaving only a familiar spinning void of white on white. It menaces, hanging sinister in this otherwise empty space, and it beckons.
I have chosen. I step through.
I feel myself taken apart, pulled into pieces, dissolving. It is a curious calm that besets me in this churning white void - the same feeling as in previous dreams, when my staring drowned eyes saw nothing and everything. I let it pull me under like the foaming surge at the top of a wave, and sink into blackness.
-M.
In my hand I hold a key - it is also black iron, like the door handle, but pitted and worn. It is old, and has seen use. It has spoken to me of its' life, of the doors it has opened and locked, of the blacksmith that forged it on his glowing orange hearth. I have held this key a long time, but now I stand facing this ordinary looking door with a heartbeat, and I know it is time to use it and part ways.
I kiss the key as I would a ritual tool, and slowly slide it into the lock. A curious note comes from the lock mechanism - triumphant, sorrowful, keening. It is hard to describe. It is not music, but it is...
The door swells and cracks appear across it. Light spills out from the cracks, blinding me. Soon the door is gone, along with the key,
leaving only a familiar spinning void of white on white. It menaces, hanging sinister in this otherwise empty space, and it beckons.
I have chosen. I step through.
I feel myself taken apart, pulled into pieces, dissolving. It is a curious calm that besets me in this churning white void - the same feeling as in previous dreams, when my staring drowned eyes saw nothing and everything. I let it pull me under like the foaming surge at the top of a wave, and sink into blackness.
-M.
