Experiment 108 Archangel Jeremiel

[114.7]
Dreams
of families, structures,
all specific entities that i recognize.
a death in the family, a funeral
we help each other.
a dyslexic condition
simple words that i spell
over and over again yet
i could not structure it right:
surreptitiously. so easy now awake.
how i struggled with flash or flames
i stole off from the group
lightning in the distance
the teachers seem to understand
i wander in the maze of dreams
and in it all, i know..
solar halo, solar beings..


The Dreamweaver - age 23

We are friends in a society of elite scholars. We teach and learn in languages of the ancients. You are an avid collector of books old and new, from faraway lands. The east orient fascinates you, as it does me. We share a mutual love of art, music and literature. We attend plays and recitals. Kindred spirits styled in social fashions of this era. A library in a mansion of leather-bound collections serves as our place for animated discussions about this world and its people. I learn much from you.

As we learn to grow together, I remember that you were littler but only for a while. Now you are bigger than I am. It seems we are the pair of matched minds and it begets you to invite me to this new land. Coming here together, we can do so much more.

A multiplied street scene filled with people-beings walking at different speeds, going about their daily lives. The enlightened ones walk among you, in the most unlikely forms. Every moment reveals a number. Your thoughts synchronize this world and we make our choices from there. Numbers are an elegant language.

You have a number. I have a design. He has a direction. She has a song. It has an angel. They have a plan. We each have a part that all understand.

No beginning, no end, just stories of growth and decay through a constant recycling of new creations for the same old thing that persists. The elements are the same, the one bewitching spirit in many forms seen or unseen.

Write this story to enlighten yourself. Only then can you serve to help others should they choose to accept. For that which you do not have, you cannot give or share. As it was before, it is now and ever shall be, worlds without end.

\\ She breathed in sharply and opened her eyes. She recognized that story pattern. It repeated itself in various styles in her thoughts, dreams and stories of people whom she met. She sighed at the imagery that lingered of the many people in the street. There had to be a way to filter the self-created delusions that distracted her from finding out more.

\\ Words are inadequate truths and poorly expressed her experiences. She kept her thoughts and stories to herself. The diversity of her worlds depended on their mutual reference to each other. It was hard enough to be human in a society. She could be no saner than those struck by delusional dementia.

\\ She loved words and the layers of languages that intrigued her. The poetic troubadour in her understood much and expressed little. It was hard to write the impressions she gets and much tougher to vocalize, except maybe in songs. She had an expansive vocabulary and a mind for mazing through words and meaning. It was still insufficient and inspiration seemed destined to fester only in dreams.