“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.” ― Edgar Allan Poe
I woke with a sweat drenched pillow, the dreams that enthralled me were just out of reach and not hesitating any longer, I pulled back the sounds of voices that harmonized like instruments of lyre and lute. The voices were right, wisdom echoed in their cadence as I found my ship drawn inextricably to their haunting direction. Have you ever smelled perfume? Not the cheap whorish variety that smelled like cotton candy but a subtle scent that lingered long after she left the room? That's how her voice seemed, a wafting fragrance that captivated both my mind and body and caused me to drift aimless but not so misdirected as one lost, for my wanderings found their home in her arms. I wrangled my dreams from their abyss and drug my sweat soaked bedding to the kitchen for an ice cold beer. Simple pleasures, intense dreams, cold beer, what more could a man want from chasing the pleasures of his Queen? I could go on but would you be interested in the musings of one who gave his ear in desperation of love, or one who wrote under the influence of acid and heroin? If not for leisure, philosophy would find no fertile ground. How can you think when your body is burdened with heat, sweat and fatigue? Yet, as I grabbed the sweaty pillow, I was lying down, sleeping, and still I sweated with what? Passion? Work? What trick of nature is this? I'm still and yet my dreams bring labor, enough work to leave me exhausted. Perhaps I actually live a life beyond the awakened drudgery of normalcy? Yes, my dreams are work, yes, that's my job, and yes, from them I'm weary and sweaty. I'm off to work again, don't look for me on the street, my tasks take me to roads never seen, and I dance with her to voices that are hidden in the depths of slumber.
Also published in Broowaha Citizen's Magazine