elsewhere...
Sep. 8th, 2005 11:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
witchscauldronThis is a dream, that was not a dream. I was elsewhere, I think. I can't really think of how else to describe it. I just know I wasn't in dreamspace.
I am walking down a dirty street. I am not familiar with where I am, but I know that this place should not be as dirty as it is. I have had a difficult time arriving where I am, when I know it should be much easier - detours, roadblocks, lots of different officious little things involving access. I am on foot because I was made to walk - not because I wanted to. My much-faster mode of transport is somewhere, locked up in some sort of public lot. I find the whole situation petty, and squalid.
I'm not entirely sure what I am doing. I have the vague sense I am delivering a message, but what or to whom is not something I am apparently privy to. The streets I am walking steadily grow narrower, grey and grim. I see something in between the shadows of the buildings, a small tumbled heap that glitters in the dim light. I slip into the space without being noticed by the many officials watching from towers set high above the streets, and find at my feet the bloodied corpse of a small, dark-skinned child.
It is androgynous. It bears scars and burns, is emaciated and gaunt, livid bruises here and there. Dressed in foul tatters of indistinct colour, it looks as if it was used hard, life drawn out of it by sheer exhaustion, and then cast aside when used up. The blood on its' frail body has come entirely out of its eyes and ears, its' mouth and nose. It is on its' back, eyes wide, as if seeing the sky for the first time. I have great sorrow for this child, this indistinct thing lacking in life. It should not be this way.
A steel door stands closeby. I move through the door - it doesn't open, or anything, I just go through it, assuuming as I do so some sort of aura...like dusky black feathers caressing skin. I find myself in a massive building of glass and steel, soaring arches and clean lines. Greys and whites and deep reds...corporate and slick, but it is not an office in the strictest sense.
I don't know who is here, and I don't know what anyone does here. I simply walk calmly into a boardroom, where there is a meeting in progress. Flip-chart on easel, executive chairs, the whole nine yards. No distinct faces. Nothing but a sense of massive overconfidence, of arrogance, of complete...indifference. Not even a flicker of surprise when I stride into the room, wearing this mantle of power and self-assurance. I am not a lackey, or an underling - I am not a thing to be ignored.
"What lays outside your doors should not be. Your stewardship is lacking - corrupted, tainted.
What rot festers underneath must be removed, to save the whole. Know that it comes."
A man stands at the head of the table. There is no indication that he has heard my words, or any of the others, for that matter. He begins to speak, laying out plans for some kind of conquest. It is spoken of as if it could not fail - as if it had already succeeded and the rest was a formality...as if they'd simply not notified the public yet. He speaks on...laying out the destruction of a certain kind, that cannot be tempted to change. I stand and listen as the fool describes a plan to "remove certain obstacles" - and I, and my allies, and our places of power, are those obstacles. And then I am dismissed with a condescending remark.
I am just...agast, at the audacity. I simply walk out of the building, and return to my home, my sacred space. Others are there with me, some who are rousing to defend, others who are preparing to be defended. My home is room after room of colours, vibrant compared to the grey flavourless world "the Co-Ordinators" have made. I walk with calm, slower now, breathing deeply. A sonorous chant is echoing through the hallways, resonating energy with each repetition. I can feel myself charging - my skin is alive with that power, and I am resonant. I am one with the spirit of the place. I can draw on it as if I was drawing breath.
I enter a red room. Red walls, red carpet, candles at every level. It is a temple, my private space. I walk to the front of the room, where a black spear lies across a plain black altar stone. A raven's skull, bone and jet and the size of a horse's head hangs on the wall above this. There are no other markings in the room.
I reach out a hand grown long with claws to touch the altar stone, and at the foot of the altar appears a sword. Hilt and blade are rich crimson, and as the chant rises and falls so too the sword. I take it by the hilt and it is as if the sword had always been a part of my hand, an extension of my will. It is copper, but blood red.
I leave the temple, and ensure that others are safely in place. I feel the approach of others, hostile, and that they expect easy victory, little resistance. I stand at its' entrance, its' gateway, and there I draw a line in the earth with my blade. The blade, it bleeds...blood flows, filling the line made in the earth, and I set myself there to wait, knowing they have underestimated me.
I would be happy to chalk it up to my over-active dream-life, or something I ate for dinner...but I know, *know*, that this was not a dream, persay, nor was it something made out of a subconscious-memory-dump through REM sleep.
Wait and see what comes of it, I guess.
I am walking down a dirty street. I am not familiar with where I am, but I know that this place should not be as dirty as it is. I have had a difficult time arriving where I am, when I know it should be much easier - detours, roadblocks, lots of different officious little things involving access. I am on foot because I was made to walk - not because I wanted to. My much-faster mode of transport is somewhere, locked up in some sort of public lot. I find the whole situation petty, and squalid.
I'm not entirely sure what I am doing. I have the vague sense I am delivering a message, but what or to whom is not something I am apparently privy to. The streets I am walking steadily grow narrower, grey and grim. I see something in between the shadows of the buildings, a small tumbled heap that glitters in the dim light. I slip into the space without being noticed by the many officials watching from towers set high above the streets, and find at my feet the bloodied corpse of a small, dark-skinned child.
It is androgynous. It bears scars and burns, is emaciated and gaunt, livid bruises here and there. Dressed in foul tatters of indistinct colour, it looks as if it was used hard, life drawn out of it by sheer exhaustion, and then cast aside when used up. The blood on its' frail body has come entirely out of its eyes and ears, its' mouth and nose. It is on its' back, eyes wide, as if seeing the sky for the first time. I have great sorrow for this child, this indistinct thing lacking in life. It should not be this way.
A steel door stands closeby. I move through the door - it doesn't open, or anything, I just go through it, assuuming as I do so some sort of aura...like dusky black feathers caressing skin. I find myself in a massive building of glass and steel, soaring arches and clean lines. Greys and whites and deep reds...corporate and slick, but it is not an office in the strictest sense.
I don't know who is here, and I don't know what anyone does here. I simply walk calmly into a boardroom, where there is a meeting in progress. Flip-chart on easel, executive chairs, the whole nine yards. No distinct faces. Nothing but a sense of massive overconfidence, of arrogance, of complete...indifference. Not even a flicker of surprise when I stride into the room, wearing this mantle of power and self-assurance. I am not a lackey, or an underling - I am not a thing to be ignored.
"What lays outside your doors should not be. Your stewardship is lacking - corrupted, tainted.
What rot festers underneath must be removed, to save the whole. Know that it comes."
A man stands at the head of the table. There is no indication that he has heard my words, or any of the others, for that matter. He begins to speak, laying out plans for some kind of conquest. It is spoken of as if it could not fail - as if it had already succeeded and the rest was a formality...as if they'd simply not notified the public yet. He speaks on...laying out the destruction of a certain kind, that cannot be tempted to change. I stand and listen as the fool describes a plan to "remove certain obstacles" - and I, and my allies, and our places of power, are those obstacles. And then I am dismissed with a condescending remark.
I am just...agast, at the audacity. I simply walk out of the building, and return to my home, my sacred space. Others are there with me, some who are rousing to defend, others who are preparing to be defended. My home is room after room of colours, vibrant compared to the grey flavourless world "the Co-Ordinators" have made. I walk with calm, slower now, breathing deeply. A sonorous chant is echoing through the hallways, resonating energy with each repetition. I can feel myself charging - my skin is alive with that power, and I am resonant. I am one with the spirit of the place. I can draw on it as if I was drawing breath.
I enter a red room. Red walls, red carpet, candles at every level. It is a temple, my private space. I walk to the front of the room, where a black spear lies across a plain black altar stone. A raven's skull, bone and jet and the size of a horse's head hangs on the wall above this. There are no other markings in the room.
I reach out a hand grown long with claws to touch the altar stone, and at the foot of the altar appears a sword. Hilt and blade are rich crimson, and as the chant rises and falls so too the sword. I take it by the hilt and it is as if the sword had always been a part of my hand, an extension of my will. It is copper, but blood red.
I leave the temple, and ensure that others are safely in place. I feel the approach of others, hostile, and that they expect easy victory, little resistance. I stand at its' entrance, its' gateway, and there I draw a line in the earth with my blade. The blade, it bleeds...blood flows, filling the line made in the earth, and I set myself there to wait, knowing they have underestimated me.
I would be happy to chalk it up to my over-active dream-life, or something I ate for dinner...but I know, *know*, that this was not a dream, persay, nor was it something made out of a subconscious-memory-dump through REM sleep.
Wait and see what comes of it, I guess.
