Sweven

Sunday 18th

A mountain range of notebooks surrounds. One word is all I want. Where in all these scarps and spines does it hide? Just one word. One. But wait. Was I not just laying in bed? Was I not just mouthing lucid mantras? Yes. I was. How did I get here? Now the room stands empty but for I. These are not my floors, windows, or walls. What? Could it be?

A finger is pushed through the putty of my palm. No pain. Could it be? A finger is pushed into the webs of my wrist and pulled up my forearm. The feeling? My finger pushing upstream in a tickling current.

It is. This is a dream! A wash of cautious joy. Roam the empty halls of a stranger house. What wonders lie behind this simple slab? Open the door only to see a similarly empty night. Leap from a step to soar to distant stars. But slowly I slip. Toes touch deep green. They slide past. I am swallowed by the supple flesh of an ether earth.

Spin like a feather through a thousand cicada songs settled safe behind a patchwork void. Dreaming. Dreaming. Dreaming. Embrace the fall.

Here, the spirit is a dim blue-black. Smooth, straight trunks stand as far as can be perceived. They stretch eternally up into a swarthy yawn of heaven, branches unseen. Such solitude. Should I fear? No. Dreaming. Dreaming. Dreaming. Be polite. "I am Sweven. I am dreaming. I am thankful to be here." Silence replies.
A palm placed upon a trunk. A rush of falling leaves. Stand knee deep in teal. Touch another trunk. Another rush. Another wade through the weep. Not idly do the leaves of Lorien fall. Now love the lazy rain of a million leaves. Teal strips with golden veins that twinkle as they twirl. Stride soft through the magic of this moment. But then steps sink. Deeper. Deeper. Deeper. Drift like a whisper through the earth. Back to black.

Freefall. The void roars and writhes. Should I fear? No. Dreaming. Dreaming. Dreaming. Laugh. Relish the fall.

Here, the spirit is as grim as a long forgotten graveyard. Clusters of gnarled trees. Naked branches, as crooked as some souls I know, stretch bold but broken. Silence is sharp. Solitude is stark. All is terrible and sacred. Push a finger through a palm. I am safe. Dreaming. Dreaming. Dreaming. I am safe. Step... but no step comes. Instead a twitch like a matrix glitch takes me to the next kink of tree. Awe. I've not known this before. I glitch on.

Senses tingle. Glitch toward the sensation of some soul. It is still. Atop spidery thin legs, as long as trees are tall, is a human-ish shape. Trench coat drapes. Tendrils of shadow tresses spill from under a not quite cowboy hat. Indiscernible eyes sit in ashen face angles. Neither young nor old... safe nor scary, it stands still still. A statue? I glitch past.

"You. Come back," a rustling voice sings. I turn. Trench coat thing is perched upon tree trunk throne. "You. Sit on my lap."

I laugh, a shrill and serrated thing that shrapnels about the dream. I shrink away from my own sound then glitch on. But what does it really want, that spindly thing with its leaf rustle voice? Finger through palm. I'm dreaming. Dreaming. Dreaming. I've nothing to fear and curiosity to sate. Glitch back to the thing on the throne. "I'm Sweven dreaming."

"You. Sit on my lap," it greets. It musters a grin, or perhaps a grimace.

Dreaming. Dreaming. Dreaming. I sit on it's lap. We are face to face... then suddenly not. Like a child on a nightmare Santa's lap, I'm caught. Arms like ropes encircle. Crushing. Tight. Hooks from the top of its bony thighs rip up into the phantom bottoms of mine. We tip backward. Thrown into another night.

I wake.

Post 5:30am dream.
It took 18 days but I finally achieved lucidity. I am terribly thankful for this. I'd begun to worry that I could not intentionally lucid dream anymore. I've proven myself wrong.

Sunday 19th

Sunless
Sunflowers hunched, stare at earth instead of sky. Desperately seek the reason why they no longer upturn their shining faces to the sun.


Re-Departed
He, who departed too soon, returns. Deep within churns, "I thought he died." But his laughter and his smile soften such severe thoughts. We enjoy his return. We savor his hugs. We simply love and are beloved. But then he is re-departed... too soon.

Friday 16th

Vultures & Swine
Vultures circle, wheeling, whipping, and chopping away chunks of childhood sky. "Hide!" someone cries. "When pigs fly," says I. "But they are flying. Right above us. Hide!" the someone cries again. Never!" I declare. "What are you doing here? FUCK OFF!" my ragged voice serenades those unwanted. To punctuate I flip twin birds at flying swine. They circle closer. Closer. Set hoof to the north. Trot this way. They hunt a murder suspect connected to the bloodlines of my yester-home.

Some Hero
A flash dead, red, and black slashes back stampedes empire cats.

Old Trail
In a neighborhood freshly stolen and stacked and old time trail still slithers. Its tail is slender but its head is a swollen graveyard of metal beasts and burdens.


Saturday 17th

Arid
Brooks and beds are coughing dust. Wells are sad and scabbed with rust. Green grows ever dimmer. From above, they laugh at our arid mother. Below, laughter is softly smothered by serpents of twisted sand.

Ice Cave
In cherished caves of ice we shine. Swing from icicle to icicle. Slide from sheet to sheet. A lone scruff tumbles in to stake a claim. I raise false swords and whetted words. He tumbles away. We return to our play.