I'm with you and the stars are crashing through.
I woke up this morning with a heavy feeling, like I've somehow managed to remain glued to the bottom a swimming pool. I don't remember, though, exactly what dream I had just escaped from a few seconds before I joined reality. All I know is that just like most dreams, it has nothing to do with my vertical life.
I sat through Media Studies class listening to my teacher's unmistakable gay-old-man tone. He was talking about period films and costumes and kulot-ng-noo; and somewhere in between his rants/lecture, I found myself lost in my own "accentless" thoughts.
Dreams. They happen as soon as our eyes shut themselves to the world and our body succumbs to the lure of slumber. It's supposed to be one anatomical massive photo-dump done by our head, to pave way for new memories. But the Neil Gaiman in me seems to think otherwise.
What if dreams are another reality, something similar to the one we go through when we're awake? And I say this not as a metaphor, but as something to be taken literally. And sleep, that action we seem to always gravitate to at the end of the day, could be the portal to the other realm. A realm where our deepest desires are made to be as tangible as the consciousness we live through, and our fears, inexistent as the balloon we've let go of and watched float beyond the clouds. Every ounce of pain imaginable can whispered to the wind, and slowly, we feel ourselves become weightless, even against the sheer placidity of the breeze. And our tears can be bottled up and thrown to the sea, where they become insignificant against the limitless waters.
Everyday becomes a cloudy Sunday afternoon, on a field of vast green, where time is standing as still as as the languor, as the trees sway to the occasional hymn of the zephyr.
And then death, perhaps, becomes the final portal, as we gaze beyond the cliff to the endless blue and simply let go, to the final reverie of our lives.
I sat through Media Studies class listening to my teacher's unmistakable gay-old-man tone. He was talking about period films and costumes and kulot-ng-noo; and somewhere in between his rants/lecture, I found myself lost in my own "accentless" thoughts.
Dreams. They happen as soon as our eyes shut themselves to the world and our body succumbs to the lure of slumber. It's supposed to be one anatomical massive photo-dump done by our head, to pave way for new memories. But the Neil Gaiman in me seems to think otherwise.
What if dreams are another reality, something similar to the one we go through when we're awake? And I say this not as a metaphor, but as something to be taken literally. And sleep, that action we seem to always gravitate to at the end of the day, could be the portal to the other realm. A realm where our deepest desires are made to be as tangible as the consciousness we live through, and our fears, inexistent as the balloon we've let go of and watched float beyond the clouds. Every ounce of pain imaginable can whispered to the wind, and slowly, we feel ourselves become weightless, even against the sheer placidity of the breeze. And our tears can be bottled up and thrown to the sea, where they become insignificant against the limitless waters.
Everyday becomes a cloudy Sunday afternoon, on a field of vast green, where time is standing as still as as the languor, as the trees sway to the occasional hymn of the zephyr.
And then death, perhaps, becomes the final portal, as we gaze beyond the cliff to the endless blue and simply let go, to the final reverie of our lives.