Dreamweaver – age 7
A clock which was made in England in 1892. It was rusty and very much neglected for two centuries. She recognized the ancient value of this wind-up mechanical piece of time. Inside the clock, it held a compartment of stones – magenta-rose aquamarine and dark green glassy moldavite – arranged in a pattern. Now that she found it, others began to covet it too. She tried to hide it from their sight. She did not trust them to take care of the clock.
The clock melted realities together when its hands passed each other. Three grand pianos joined together with keys for playing on one side and a table for working on another. She started to read notes on the table without permission. Her thoughts were selfish and she was poisoning herself from the inside. She struggled to maintain the order of her mind. These thoughts seemed old and familiar. She was once upon a time so very coarse mentally.
Some friends she shared with completely and they were few and far between. She was not as generous or giving as she could be. She was tired of these rampant thoughts that were useless and unkind. She is afraid of the power she gives to the thought forms; she was afraid she could not take it back. The point of peace and balance is precarious – she could wade through it or she could avoid it. There was always another way for thoughts to become things.
Her male friend wore a green and magenta kilt together with a white shirt. He gave her a book on the poetry of the ancient scholars. Her female friend had a beautiful dark green jade pendant and bought her some incense which smoked a pale green from an Indian temple. She has another French friend who planned to hold an exhibition on relics and artefacts at her place of residence. She spoke to her kilted friend about the style and method of display. He too would share in the exhibition and thought the master room would be spacious and secure enough for keeping the displays.
She had learnt levitation – specifically the manipulation of gravitational and magnetic forces of the environment surrounding the object. She played with the book of the ancient scholars. Her kilted friend had written in his book: After so many long years of having not thought about you, you come to me in my dreams. In it, your blood and bones were cold and you told me you were dying. I hope it is not true and that you live even more. I suddenly miss being in love with you.
The rusted clock hands passed each other again. A chime sounded with these melodic words – Use the stories in your head. They will connect the dots of a wandering life spread across time and space. The most amazing harmonics sounded in her head soon after the words. A song of life and creation. She heard it sung in dreams and she was amazed. How adaptable and simple and moving it was. A few chords merged into a layered tune. Sixty seconds had passed. She almost forgot it soon after. She would hear it again.
She had to get pass her egotistical whims and master her insidious nature. She cared enough about her friends to try again. She had to start by befriending herself and then maybe, she would be more comfortable and more trusting when sharing with the others.
