I lived a dream.
I wrote the following piece sometime in late 2016 and shared it on an old writing blog I no longer maintain. It came from a running dream that I had, which sparked me to record it as such as I rarely recall dreams so vividly.
I lived a dream. It had taken place early fall, when the alchemy of nature still transmutes the sylvan landscape to one vivid and almost homogeneous mass of green. The senses are well intoxicating, with surging seas of moist verdure. At first, it all seemed grey, but dreams never had come to me in black and white before. The hue came into perspective. It was a heavily tinted blue atmosphere that had settled across the landscape. The forest darkened around where I stood into a sepulcher. In such surroundings, the mind loses its perspective; time and space become trivial and unreal, and echoes of a forgotten prehistoric past beat insistently upon the psyche. I recalled that I spent all day thinking about things I could no longer discuss and conversing with things I could no longer name. But now, I stood on solid wood, a heavy slant going down, boards. Finely laid. Not standing now, moving. The forest stood still, no sound came. But upon the psych, there still beat a constant, a dread that continued to rasp upon the door of the mind. The ears tingled with a growing noise that never came but never ceased not to be. I was fast approaching the end of the wood walkway, coming off of a sky bridge that had been constructed. I never see anything else on the bridge but the coming boards before each successive step. And with each step, I grew closer to the end but the end would never come. I knew intimately of where I was and where my path led, fully conscious of my situation and predicament. I had been here a hundred times prior, a thousand, a million prior. But this time the path would seem alien, distant. The rasping within the mind awakened the ancient being of my ancestors’ pasts and warned to proceed with caution.