Dead as Dreams

“The best fantasy is written in the language of dreams. It is alive as dreams are alive, more real than real ... for a moment at least ... that long magic moment before we wake. Fantasy is silver and scarlet, indigo and azure, obsidian veined with gold and lapis lazuli. Reality is plywood and plastic, done up in mud brown and olive drab. Fantasy tastes of habaneros and honey, cinnamon and cloves, rare red meat and wines as sweet as summer...We read fantasy to find the colors again, I think. To taste strong spices and hear the songs the sirens sang. There is something old and true in fantasy that speaks to something deep within us, to the child who dreamt that one day he would hunt the forests of the night, and feast beneath the hollow hills, and find a love to last forever somewhere south of Oz and north of Shangri-La.

They can keep their heaven. When I die, I'd sooner go to middle Earth.”

- George R.R. Martin

I've been dreaming lately. Vivid, strange dreams that seem to carry on through the morning hours after I wake, pervading even in the afternoon, after I've had my coffee. Even now I'm dreaming. My thoughts are clouded, still wrapped in the blanket of warm sleep. Arduously meandering in the cold, like a fire that burns against the coming of winter. "Nothing burns like the cold."

What is most peculiar about these dreams, is that they should not even take place. It is as if my subconscious is consistently sending me messages in my sleep. Subtly suggesting a righteous path, unlocking caged creativity, but never with force.

Complexions, conceptions of gold wheat, lavender sky, pink synthetics, and black red blood congealing on the cracked hardwood. Snakes that bite, and glass that breaks, unleashing a boundless torrent of salamanders. Tortured wailing, imprisoned with fear. A symphony of throats. Cut yourself and see if you bleed. Are you black inside? Escape. To be alone on the shores of the lake of the falling rockets. Clutching the sand. Becoming the jagged black landscape.
The sky wept a cascade of burning orbs.



I used to dream. That was a long time ago; Before I took an SSRI which ultimately prohibits me from indulgent, creative slumber. I took these unconscious adventures for granted, dismissing them as mere frivolities with meager significance. However, it is becoming quite clear that these dreams hold a much greater purpose, of which I'm not sure if I will ever be aware. Which brings me to the conclusion that I should allow them to grow, these fantastical visions that bring me such elation when I lose myself in them. No longer will I only dream when I am awake. I've been a zombie for too long, casting a seemingly infinite shadow, decaying with every solemn breath, extinguishing the flames of my imagination. Every breath. So many moments gone to waste. I fear that without drastic change, I will continue to die rather than live.

Throttling black existence in rivers of fire and religion.
Androgynous.
These torrid visions.
I'm still dreaming.

I went to a power tools factory. I went to a strip mall. I'll take refuge in a forest today, wiser than I, old as time itself. Alone with my thoughts and my friends. What am I to make of this life, these sights and sounds?

"Learn to feel all over again.
My name is anonymous.
I taste like everyone.
Medication blurs the last five percent."
-J.R. Hayes



-Tyler Collins