words and dreams…

A word is not unlike a dream, in the sense that you can find in both a very peculiar stance where sensibility and madness go hand in hand. But any attempt, by man or woman, to tread new roads to and from such ethereal places is often futile, simply because the journey to such underminded places is often one of tortuous self-discovery.

But to find a word buried deep within a dream, painfully estatic, forever marred by the memory of those living in the light, is not a chance encounter by itself. Per chance it died in an arrogant self-reliance an age ago, crying in the night as it slowly disappeared when there was nothing but a faint memory to remember it ever existed. Perhaps, just like me, it is now looking for a way out.

I am always absorbed by such encounters, slowly moving forward in a moment’s passing. It’s the coming of the night what keeps me so occupied, the moment when I feel the obligation and necessity to tell the dreams I have inside, not because they are my own to give, but because I feel them so completely, so intimately that not doing so would mean the end of my own erratic existance.

This is an oversimplification, and I know it. It would be impossible for me to painfully re-enact every single scene and to write down each and every word that was said. But that’s where sensibility comes in, when you can find your way around the sea of doubt that clogs the mind at the hour of the wolf.

There is something so simple and so beautiful about waking up at night.

Frank 10:24