Awake In A Sleeping World

     The definition of a nightmare is an evil spirit sent to strangle a person in their dreams. Well, this is the old definition, one my neoteric mind cannot and will not accept. There is no such thing as a nightmare.
     It all began in the darkness as I shut my sleep laden eyes and surrendered to the milky ebony of night, blacker than the blackest crow. I slipped away, away into a muddled confusion that I would never wake from.
     I stood in a cavern, hollowed and empty like the carcass of a long dead giant whose leathery skin has worn away and life and breath has deserted to leave only the skeletal remains of the beast behind, a sad reminder that that all things must die. The faint trickling of water was all that shattered the endless silence, timidly echoing in the monstrous shell beneath the earth. I shuddered as I took as step forward, a mad cacophony sounding in the gloom from the movement.
     How I knew where to go I am not certain. I could not see but for a crack gaping in the roof of the cavern, permitting sparse moonlight to slip in like a quiet thief and break the complete darkness to reveal the secrets of the great cavern's innards. Jagged stalactites and stalagmites reached out to each other like sharp, vicious fangs, dripping water like the crimson blood of prey in a steady rhythm, never ceasing like the infinite tick of an energetic clock.
     My arm brushed against the cavern wall and sent a cold chill running down the length of my spine like an electric current, igniting every nerve in my body. The rock was slick like glass, its rugged surface worn from ages of damp and dark. I shied away, keeping my arms tucked in tight to my sides, not wanting to feel the alien surface on my skin, an unwelcome reminder of the unknown which surrounded me, encompassed me, consumed me.
     The tenebrous nature of the cavern was altogether unnerving. The features of the earthen hollow were impossible to discern for the blanket of unsettling darkness, an opaque veil of the likes I had never before experienced. It was almost mesmerizing and the fact that I found it so terrified me. The sliver of precious moonlight was fading as I moved forward, further abandoning me in this foreign world, plunging me deeper into a universe of shadows.
     It would seem that I would have been reluctant to go on, revolted, even, by the sheer thought of it, but, on the contrary, I wanted nothing more. I was driven by some primal instinct, some prideful possession that I could not begin to ignore or, worse, deny. I longed to walk in those dark, empty corridors. I craved those damp, hollow spaces and the sounds of water dancing down the walls of weathered rock. I hungered to reach the end of the cavern, to solve the riddle this enigmatic journey. It drove me to madness.
     Each night I shut my eyes and find myself in the cavern. Each night it calls to me, this starving curiosity, and I feed it, but it is never satiated. Instead, it grows with each step, each breath, fogging before my pallid face in the moonlit cavern. I cannot please this violent curiosity because I can never reach the end.
     Whether the cavern is infinite or not I cannot say, nor can I fully understand its true nature. All I know is this cavern of my dreams, of my nightmares, is as real as anything I have ever experienced in the waking world. No, it has become my world. It is my focus. It is my life. Each night I go there and continue the journey and wonder if it will ever end. But, some primitive part of me, some part of my being so fundamentally wild, doesn't ever want to leave this cold, dead cavern.
     The dreams are so tangible, so realistic, that I now question which of my two realities is true. In which do I exist? I am troubled as this old world fades and the world of the cavern becomes my new existence, but part of me is delighted. This part of me which horrifies me so is filled with joy. It leaves me haunted, empty as the cavern itself. I cannot understand. Am I awake in a sleeping world, or am I the one who's dreaming?

A Run

     The brittle leaves crunched beneath my pounding feet, each stride delivering a symphony of the forest. I ran through the trees, puffs of dirt flying up from my heels like clouds without rain. The scent of fall stripped my senses raw, leaving bare the earthy aroma of pine needles and sticky sap running down the rugged trunks of ancient trees and flimsy saplings, bent and drooping like a flower that is tired and wilting. 

     And I ran. 

     Icy wind ripped around my shoulders and whipped my hair back away from my face. Tears streamed from my eyes in an endless flow of self pity mingling with the twinges of guilt. And still I ran. I ran faster, harder than before, begging for speed. The world crashed into me. A menacing root jutted from the ground angrily where my feet had betrayed me. Bright crimson ran down my knees, canvases meant to remain blank, unpainted. I ignored the ache from the fall and began to run again, shaky at first but determined. 

     And I ran. 

     I ran across the dying grasses and the withering weeds. I ran across the dirt caked pebbles and over rock strewn trails. I ran through streams where water trickled in hazy, lazy paths and through rushing torrents, beating against my legs. I ran to the precipice of mountains and over rolling hills, across stark landscapes barren of life and through forests packed with jagged thorns. I knew I would fall again, but I also knew I would get up. I lifted my face to the brilliant sun.

     And I ran.

On the Duality of Man and Funny Things

      It is at once both sad and curious that I should find aspects of reality and the imagination that are dark, depressing, and the occasionally grotesque far easier to describe than those that are cheerful, beautiful, and inspiring. What is even more haunting of a thought is that I find more enjoyment in the former than latter. To me, writing is an art, a delicate art, most subtle and incredibly subjective in nature. I find that crafting words is but another way of painting or sculpting, but I sculpt the mind and not the physical world. It seems, after saying this, all together disturbing that I could gain such satisfaction in the act of painting or sculpting something so hideous, disturbing, or heart wrenching, and that the creation of such mental images, the very construction of words to build such thoughts, flows easily from the depths of my innermost conscience, unimpeded by shock at my own mind.
     But is my mind solely at fault? Is it my mind that is to blame, or something larger entirely, influencing my art? Is our society not the reason for this blissful madness? Each morning we wake up, we turn on the news, the usual drawl, typically ignored while we go about out business in a contented haze. When we pay attention, however, to this endless, humdrum drawl, this background noise to our daily lives, it is shockingly apparent that our society is incredibly focused on the worst of the world. The news is filled with the horrors of our reality: murder, storms, death, war, rape, and destruction. Our society, though we will deny it with every ounce of conviction we contain in our bodies, craves this horror and has a sick fascination with the darkness within our world and ourselves.
     I believe we crave knowledge of our other half, but in a disturbing way, we already understand it better than any other part of our natures. I believe it is simpler for me to describe a pitch black room than one filled with sunlight and I believe chaos is easier to write of than perfection. This, primarily, is because perfection does not, will not, and cannot ever exist in this world of ours. Perfection is but a fleeting ideal dreamed up by people hungry for a better reality. Perfection may be in our future reality, but it is not in our present one, and because of this, I cannot understand it and thus have extreme difficulty when forced to explain this end of the spectrum.
     We are all two people. Which of these two is dominant depends upon influences which begin at birth. No one is perfect. We each have flaws. Whether we have a heinous scar from a house fire started when a match slipped from a hand, or a ravaging eating disorder, we all know imperfection. This understanding is at the same time utterly sad and undeniably interesting. It is also our greatest hope. Though perfection cannot be achieved, we may be able to take our understanding and turn it for the good. Someday, even, we might just beat this world of chaos, but first we have to accept what we truly are.
   

A Torrent of Mistaken Dreams

      The hull of the ship was massive, imposing, a giant on the shores of the Atlantic. It was battered and beaten, weathered and worn from salt and wind, storm and gale, but that only made her want it more. She stepped onto its deck, firm of foot and sure of purpose. She wanted to explore, to branch out. She felt in charge aboard the ship, as if she wielded power, immense and inexhaustible.

     As sails bloomed overhead, pulled taught from icy wind which blew with a violent intensity, excitement  coursed through her veins, its warmth a shield against the bitter cold air. Her heart raced on with the ship as it sped away from the bustling quay. This was all she'd ever wanted, all she'd ever dreamt of or desired with the capacity of her soul. 

     Her homeland grew distant as the shoreline fled from view, the buildings forming tiny, indistinct specks over the reach of water. Darting with a growing unease, her eyes raced across the horizon towards the land she would never see again, but had never, until this moment, really hoped to.

     Cerulean plains became her surroundings, a bleak and all encompassing landscape of water, tossing and crashing against the hull of the ship, screeching in a torrent of angry screams. For the first time she felt so small, tiny in comparison to the true enormity of the universe. For the first time in her life, she was truly, undeniably alone. 

     Suddenly, an ache like no other crushed her to the core, carved it out, and left her with a gaping, inexplicable hollow where once was life and warmth. She clutched her hands about the splintered rails, her knuckles stark white with the effort of holding onto some invisible, fleeting hope, long lost to the winds over the briny water. She felt empty, distant, and utterly lonely. 

     How could she not have seen? How could she have been so mistaken? All of her life she had fantasized leaving the safety of the land and the comforts of home far behind, but now that it was gone to her, completely and without chance of return, all she wanted most in the world was to just have it back.