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((BTW: Feel free to comment on these if you want. I always worry when people don't...and you have NO idea what I'd give for a quiet night's sleep.))
I am travelling, in autumn. It is late in the season, and the trees are bare, mostly. Only a few tattered leaves remain, fluttering forlornly. A storm is cutting in, black and menacing, from the East - I can scent snow. It is my Mother who drives, a woman who loves to travel. I am aware of her presence, but never see her. My back is to her as I stare out the window.
We stop at a small store, on a sandy shoreline - not the golden sand of summer, but the grey-silver strand betwixt realms, a cold November beach. The worn floor of the store is what catches my attention, soft, butter-smooth wood worn by many feet.
I look at my feet, bare in sandals, white. I turn, and there is a shelf on the wall, painted deep blue, with gilt stars. It too is old, paint cracked and flaking, but it is warm to my touch, the only thing in the room that is. There is horned startuary, a worn woman, gold-touched and stiff in pose. It is Egyptian. I begin to realize this is an emergent pattern, become fully aware that I dream. Blue and green glass jars, burnt out candles, incense ashes, offering bowls - this altar is loved, was once-loved, at least. Someone has abandoned it, fled with summer from the shore of the water. I touch it, feel the warmth of the wood. I feel love for this altar, left here alone.
And I am somewhere else.
There is sand here. Not silver sand, the salty strand of my mind that I love and cherish as the gateway, but warm, golden sand, a desert far removed from my usual haunts. I look up, and am confronted with a temple gate - not the crumbling white stone of today, but smooth, carved, stone painted vibrant colours, bursting with life. People scurry in amongst the pillars, and guards stand with spears ready.
I am confused. How did I get here? I am lost. The sun is high, and burning my eyes. I walk forward, and am confronted with spears - I see them killing others who trespass on sacred ground, without cause, even as I stand at the end of them. I am pulled past them by a woman. She is indistinct - She has no face to me, but a blue robe, and gilt-covered nails. She is nothing like the black woman I have seen before Sekhmet - I am not afraid. She takes me to her arms, and holds me, and confusion flees. She robes me (I feel) properly, in green, and says "Follow me"...
I awake.
I don't know what is happening. Part of me feels a call, one that tears me in half somehow. Another part of me says I am merely regurgitating themes and images from my subconscious, loaded with these things from my painting research. I wish I knew what to think. I don't know that anyone else can help me make sense of it all. These dreams are beautiful, but they are burdening my thoughts....not something a Voidsinger loves. Dreaming is a curious, if somewhat dubious, gift.
I am travelling, in autumn. It is late in the season, and the trees are bare, mostly. Only a few tattered leaves remain, fluttering forlornly. A storm is cutting in, black and menacing, from the East - I can scent snow. It is my Mother who drives, a woman who loves to travel. I am aware of her presence, but never see her. My back is to her as I stare out the window.
We stop at a small store, on a sandy shoreline - not the golden sand of summer, but the grey-silver strand betwixt realms, a cold November beach. The worn floor of the store is what catches my attention, soft, butter-smooth wood worn by many feet.
I look at my feet, bare in sandals, white. I turn, and there is a shelf on the wall, painted deep blue, with gilt stars. It too is old, paint cracked and flaking, but it is warm to my touch, the only thing in the room that is. There is horned startuary, a worn woman, gold-touched and stiff in pose. It is Egyptian. I begin to realize this is an emergent pattern, become fully aware that I dream. Blue and green glass jars, burnt out candles, incense ashes, offering bowls - this altar is loved, was once-loved, at least. Someone has abandoned it, fled with summer from the shore of the water. I touch it, feel the warmth of the wood. I feel love for this altar, left here alone.
And I am somewhere else.
There is sand here. Not silver sand, the salty strand of my mind that I love and cherish as the gateway, but warm, golden sand, a desert far removed from my usual haunts. I look up, and am confronted with a temple gate - not the crumbling white stone of today, but smooth, carved, stone painted vibrant colours, bursting with life. People scurry in amongst the pillars, and guards stand with spears ready.
I am confused. How did I get here? I am lost. The sun is high, and burning my eyes. I walk forward, and am confronted with spears - I see them killing others who trespass on sacred ground, without cause, even as I stand at the end of them. I am pulled past them by a woman. She is indistinct - She has no face to me, but a blue robe, and gilt-covered nails. She is nothing like the black woman I have seen before Sekhmet - I am not afraid. She takes me to her arms, and holds me, and confusion flees. She robes me (I feel) properly, in green, and says "Follow me"...
I awake.
I don't know what is happening. Part of me feels a call, one that tears me in half somehow. Another part of me says I am merely regurgitating themes and images from my subconscious, loaded with these things from my painting research. I wish I knew what to think. I don't know that anyone else can help me make sense of it all. These dreams are beautiful, but they are burdening my thoughts....not something a Voidsinger loves. Dreaming is a curious, if somewhat dubious, gift.
