Awaken into a Dream

Awaken by the sound of the bass saxophone. Only to realize that the aura of the audio sensation was an invitation into a dream.  The heavy smoke of the mighty winds invading the space won by the dream-free time. Wavy mass of gaseous acoustics drawing shapes unimaginable and inaccessible during the dreamtime. During the time of what one was convinced to be a dream. And it was.

It was a visual sound made of words. And it was, at the same time, none of it. It was a dream and it wasn’t. It was insofar as it coincided with the dream one read about in other people’s diaries. It wasn’t because it had a decisive feel of a dawn cracking open the cocoon of a new day. A steely cloud encrusts the day. Its vanilla-orange smell imbued vapor emanates the glow whose only origin can be the human face. 

A day like a seedpod. A night like a cocoon. Dispersing across the relics of the sweat infested night. Infected amber dribbling down the branches. Gluing particles of the disintegrated cocoon dust together with dry leaves. Rolling balls. Decomposing cocoons of new days. New cracking dawns. New dreams to welcome the colors of  melting. Dissolving miasma. Phantasy of the buzz. 

A dream it was. As always, in dreams emotions and locations are ill-matched. I know it because I was now awaken by a different sound. The sound that tells me that a steely cloud glaze is to my day the steady bassline of the syncopated drums of surface distractions. And it is. I know it because I read about it in a diary entry written by my oneiric dislocation. 

A story like a thunder with a child’s heart. A look like a gargoyle’s tooth disguising an infant’s skin. Late evening in a café with strangers. Sipping their coffees. Nobody talks. Everybody busy fixating the stare on the gleaming screens. Plethora of information at anyone’s disposal. Either the lack of time or focus to absorb it all. Or, perhaps, just the limits of the human power. The simplest, seemingly banal assumptions frequently prove to be quite reasonable. Deceptive complexities. Keep one captive. For a while, at least. 

A night like a cocoon. A day like a seedpod. Mornings of the beautifully deceptive murkiness of the gloomy image of the world. Threatening impression of the deeply protective solemnity. Permeability of the grey coating. Hiding the warming smile of the indefatigable source of hi-quality, semi-liquid human excrement. Unbeatable mafotherfucking diarrhea shake. The power of weakness. Inexhaustible wellspring of golden shit. At anyone’s disposal: when a sunny clime means sweet fruit and freedom from everything, but not for anything.