What Dreams are Made

And you are faded, and I am gone. To this, answers flutter from within dark recesses unbound and belittled. I’d seek no relevance through the unkind sights or withering sighs, but for all masks hidden in our eyes. So in the glimmer, a stark contrast filtered through and through, is flown beyond oblivion. There were once wishes in the unbidden, sake for sale, and writ bold by sole and solitude. So the wavering visages of the ides walk, undaunted by rage or irony, slackened not by tidings of two and seven.

Beseech the surreal crazed dreams that leap upon skies dashed with washes of color and sound of silk, that there be nothing forgotten in the wild. But the words are long and disheveled, broken apart and winding unerrantly away common and salacious. But it’s all nonsense, and definitely crazed; a wreck of solitude and fevered imaginings, a fuel for images and dimensions bound to clash and unhinge unreality. Seek all this, and no peril will obfuscate the daring or the bold.

That there is no dizzying collapse or drunken stupor capable of explaining our wondrous charge, it is fitting we’re awash in culpability and unfortunate circumstance beyond our ken. Such a curse befalls only the most wicked, and so our torment cascades endlessly betwixt redemption and inspired confusion. And The Muse laughs, influencing the glamour and insight of the most clouded and disheveled minds, striking them full of incomprehensible nonsense benefitting none but the most wizened sage derailed by senility.

These inexpressible, conflicting, and harmonic depictions once sought unity now demand retribution most cruel, by arming immature minds with answers for all things. And so sanity is broken, faith is lost and duality is consumed by fires of totality and bright clandestine bliss. Only to be lost by the frailty of human understanding which dares to delve too far, or worse, only far enough for the fear to strike away any semblance of confluence.

So trapped, the writhing morass draws upon the weak-willed and dark decanter, fluttering since immaterial wakenings so wrought. And in that darkness waits nothing but light unbidden, drinking the little insights and worlds fiction builds for the living and those yet unweaved. So this utter nonsense careens wildly through and within clarity of purpose and furnaces of none, swallowing our integrity without morality or purpose. So that is what drives us mad, or forces sanity upon the unwilling, that pink center of unconscious omniscience.

Thus the dreams are made, and consume us whole. And I willingly stride within, taking stock of infinity armed only with blindness.