dreams of elsewhere
sometimes I dream of Elsewhere, and the dreams are always strange, like dreams are, but doubly strange because of the utter strangeness of the place – the rooms and layouts of rooms change and shift — last night I climbed stairs and the building was on the wrong side of the street, and the stairs led to an upstairs apartment which sort of exists but does not exist —
when I wake from such dreams, I wake smiling, happy for the visit, and the beautiful strangeness of memory.
seems like dreams, dreams must have been the beginning of magic and gods and all of that back in the ancient past of our race, when everything was new and yet to be learned. Sometimes, in the gray shady area suspended between waking and dreaming, I am back there, to my own ancient past, when I was young and learning things for the first time. It is a strangely alienating experience, and it makes me think back to F.N.’s Birth of Tragedy, and the suspicion that all our knowledge and turning towards the world becomes, like the yellow pages of an old book left to the elements, an ossified apollonian construct of foreknowledge and anticipation that blocks our view of the absolute dionysian reality underneath.
In the place between dreaming, the pages of my life fall away, and my soul is fresh and naked and exposed, and I feel the world pressing up against my self, and I experience it again, as if for the first time.