Capricious

10 - Bridge Between Worlds

"Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind."
- Theodor Seuss Geisel

A dream so vivid, so wild. Of hounding politics and abuse of power. Of worlds hidden and destroyed. Of a chase and a lost and a discovery unlikely enough to be true. They lived there, cared there, learned there as everything fell around them, girls lost in memory, before apocalypse and revolution. Oh, to learn a secret. How clear it was and now lost despite my post-wake attempts to obsess and return, that all seemed clearer in a daze. A disturbed sleep then on, of anxiety I am now unsure of. Was it owing to becoming a slave once more, of being haunted and threatened by phantasmic beauty, or of chores so difficult for me? Such that I even desire the humblest of lives old because the simplicity resembles the past days of delight so. Removed of regard, I drift to reason how the dreaming mind can assemble these ideas of complexing scenes, fitting together to form wondrous stories such that to visit libraries I need only shut my eyes. I so hate to forget such things. Why are we only free to concoct magic in these times? What do we need to let go of to be as such in life? Does fear and anxiety and caring strip us of this, cloud our very inspiration? A perfectly fitting answer I find hiding in my question. Dreams are such careless creatures after all.

Chipping away again at my soul, eroding casts of thought from around my subconscious, letting go and cruising free through the moors broken off the beaten track. The glowing fissures from dark nights past appear to seal with gluing light. The outer layers of my physical self swerve hurricanes of flame that threaten to consume my all, to carry me away, through the realm of vermilion to something far bluer. Away from our burning sun, our conscious reality, travelling at speeds of ages slipping by, through endless limbo, so fast the physical cannot move against you quickly enough. That light, sound, fabric. We tear apart the world, reduce its relative size while we step past everything miles to the second.

Connecting sounds, the threads of those waves stitching together, you hear every streaming decibel, the echoes bounding off into the distance, dissipating infinitely towards zero, yet never reaching so.

And there laid the bridge, splayed stretched between worlds, yet a world within itself. Endless cities, buildings, roads sticking to it like a virus, hurdling up its legs and growing layers on top. Just enough distractions. The way through certain to take too much from us.

And I come to think that mayhap be true. That when I first felt it, it began to set me free, unleashing shackles from what my brain was prevented from being able to feel, being able to imagine. Worlds grew inside of me, that this universe could change. Universes the complete existences of the feelings that can be lived as dimensions like shape and time. Dare I say it, love. But now as I lose it, as it dwindles further away. Will I be free much longer? Or will I fall back into that prison of doubt, one universe less?

Those adventures in missing years, that separated and gave meaning to them, a few lasting memories the only of any significance. And to think. I was never even going to go. A whim and a late rush. Back in times of long, mahogany hair, slim and baggy styles, and my sweet Italian crush. We hiked, I ruled, singing and lugging and longing. We engaged around fires, huddled under stars, forging through the countryside, getting lost into the dark.

These places to explore, to wonder at what lives and time have moulded into the earth, to live time and time again in locales marvelled and peculiar. How I wish to travel the world, to know every secret it holds, to fall for it so. I will do it, even if I must do it alone. There is so much beauty in the world. Why waste my time in this singular, tedious abyss? Step by step. I will conquer it all.

Those I can be ridiculous with, sharing frivolities, unconcerned with reality or age or ego. They're my favourite sort of people. To let go of the world and design our own anew. To appear lost in the blissful ignorance of childhood. Only the purest of friends.

All I can do is to ache, if I have but nothing to sate, I toss and turn and freeze and burn as grips on reality gyrate.