#DreamTimeTales #1000Dreams #WorldsWithoutEnd
30 November 2013.One Thousand Dreams - Between Worlds Without End.
A novel adventure for NanNoWriMo November 2013. Unedited. This page may not be sufficient to hold the entire story, hence I shall scatter fragments of DreamTimeTales in various (pre-timed) posts and I do hope we continue our adventures together around the matrix of this miniscule space. May each DreamTime fragment lead you to new discoveries of words and worlds. Remember, everything is connected. Thank you for sharing this journey. Joyeux Noël et Paix sur Terre.
Dreamweaver - age 41
There was a quaint bookshop filled with wooden shelves and an assortment of old and new books stacked in all places possible. She chose two thin paperback books which each had a single rectangular pane of mirror wedged between the pages. She wanted to make an infinity kaleidoscope by joining three mirror pieces together into a space scape with star bits and planetary orbs. Her friend paid for the books by credit card while she used cash.There were people queuing up behind them to pay for items too. She noted the background collection of wind instruments – flutes, clarinets, recorders – some made of wood with pearl inlays, others of silver, and one with a Hamibium design. Several of the instruments range from a foot to six feet in length.
She loved the sounds of wind instruments; they reminded her of bamboo forests and the pied pipers who control the geometries of this world.
Dreamweaver - age 21
He first noticed the female in the crowd of male students seated in the columned garden square under the rowan trees, silently observing the animated discussion about theology and life. That she was in their philosophical midst was a salient question, for females were rarely interested in these topics preferring less complicated or more domestic chatter. She was absorbed by the various threads these boys were spinning; some of their views were random, most of their words were extravagant.
Her eyes had caught just enough morning light to smolder the brown in her eyes gold from where he was standing. This scene felt familiar to him although he had not seen her on the grounds before. He was drawn by the curiosity of her eyes, by the way her body relaxed subtly into the fervent conversation, and by the contrast she quietly embodied among the academic noise. He watched her like a painter studying his subject for a masterpiece.
She often wondered about the worlds beyond this one. Her father had spoken of stories from his ancestors of a faraway place. Tales of beings different from her own body, like the fish in the sea or the birds in the sky or both. All exist in the great natural world under the watchful eyes of the omniversal core, her father expounded. She felt more than the stirring of curiosity from the conversations before her. Their debates made sense to her whether they agreed with each other or not. Somehow, they were each partially right and wrong at the same time.
She shifted between the currents of their contemplation casually; she heard the rustle of the rowan leaves in mid breeze; she tasted rain that was coming soon with the wind that blew in suddenly, so she looked with the intent to judge the clouds bringing rain and instead she saw a pair of cerulean eyes framed in a man watching her.
They locked eyes, gold and blue, and contrary to social customs of the place, neither averted their gaze; one contained curiosity, another held wonder. He smiled a little at her boldness and in their distance, without breaking his gaze, tilted his face slightly in acknowledgement of their first contact. She blinked once in mild response and then quickly averted her eyes to the ground as if she suddenly remembered her upbringing to be polite. A storm was gathering, she can feel it, and she was too far from home.
She stood to leave and some of the boys halted in the middle of their sentences to rise with her and part a path for her. She smiled her thanks at their courtesy and left, carrying a small leather package. A few boys continued to look at her departing form, as did he. Somehow the intellectual precepts had disappeared with her sudden exit. The students disbanded. His eyes took in her actions for as long as he could before his mind made a choice: He would find her again. Soon, a storm would brew.
He considered following after her. The clouds were moving in fast with the sudden change in wind speed. He did not know her, yet he felt inclined to guard her somehow. He could take a walk just to see where her path led. He could pick her out in the distance of scattering people who were becoming aware of a possible deluge coming their way. She was still pacing herself unhurriedly as if in sunshine when overhead darkness gathered. Was she really unaffected or was she lost in thoughts, he wondered.
At the first crack of thunder, he detected a change in her pace. He could easily out stride her in steps, but he chose to keep a respectful distance that would obscure his pursuit. His interest in her would take its proper place below his code of social etiquette. He looked up once and judged that the torrents would be a moment away. He looked back down and she was gone. He walked just a little bit closer to where he had last seen her when the first big drops of rain descended.
He ducked into the nearest over ledge and walked close the walls, out of range of the falling drops. There would be an opening nearby the city walls where he could slip in to wait out the storm. He would have to hurry before it started to flood. He turned a sharp left at the corner wall and collided firmly with another smaller person, swaddled in cloth presumably as a rain cover, who happened to turn right.
The smaller person recoiled on impact and would have fallen into a huge puddle of water if it were not for his split instinct to reach out and catch the person by the arm; the moment his fingers closed in on physical contact, he had a flash of knowing, female, it was her. He curved his arm inwards towards his body and took a step out into the rain to balance the girl’s opposing force and caught her but she had somehow recovered her centre of gravity and so landed squarely on his chest. He pulled her back into the shelter of the ledge and let go.
She was still stunned by the sudden turn of events. She remembered an impact while she turned the corner and that blurred into movements between the cold drops and the warm torso that caught her swiftly as her body instinctively turned to regain balance. She had covered her head with her cape and did not see the person who turned the corner simultaneously. She was most apologetic and her hand flipped back the hood so that she might express sincerely her profuse apologies. She recognized his cerulean eyes. Lightning flashed through them.
He recognized her hazel eyes as the cloth unveiled her face. Shock perhaps at the impact of two bodies still glazed on hers. He was amazed at the premonition this scene brought and forgot emotions. She thought he was offended and proceeded contritely. A clap of thunder blocked out her words and suddenly both felt transported to another scene between the moments, between them.
Dreamweaver - age 22
I drift between thoughts and breaths in a rift bereft of reality. Raindrops fall as splattered as my consciousness, flooding the senses. Dank is the spirit and dark is the canvas.
I dream of a boat with elevators and stars and glass panelled windows for a hull. Inside are people, both passengers and crew. Their roles are inter changeable and they know what they are doing. Outside the glass hull, a storm and tsunami rages.
The crew is in full shift, everyone knows what they are in charge of to pull through this chaos. I have to close the windows to prevent the water from flooding the decks. That is my purpose on this ship of fools. As best as I can, I pull shut the windows. Some panes are stuck and others are ill fitted for the frames. The water will still leak into the boat.
I must find another way. I must protect the ship. Everyone else around me seems calm or oblivious to the raging waters outside. This is a training ground aboard a vessel and the vessel will see us safely through.
We wear uniforms in shades of blue from the lightest sky to the darker midnight tones. We are learning. I am learning. We are gathered in a hall of some kind to hear the address and instructions of a male principal. There are many of us.
A very colourful bird flits around me playfully. It behaves like a friendly pet and follows me around the hall. I am glad for its company. We have to stand by as others board and disembark. I seem to be in my element as I usher and host the guests about the ship. The bird takes its place on my shoulder as an ambassador of the vessel.
The Dreamweaver – age 33
They start out on a journey. She is about 8 years. Something about the music. A musician uncle who took her and her sibling in. they were rich kids. She has a younger sister. They have carriages that bring them to a palace made of white and gold. Horses and a grand piano. Music.
She is fascinated by the music he plays. The uncle seems poor yet he will teach them to play the piano. He notices how she plays. She sometimes get drawn to his playing but she cannot read the notes. She cannot read its language but she can use it and play it.
She crawls to sleep somewhere and the nurses find her and gets her to crawl out of the place. She seems comforted. And life grows.
She is now a young lady. An older guy in an opulent bedroom. On the bed is a basin of water and three stalks of flowers, lavender, rose and patchouli. He is expressing his love and partly flirting with her. He is trying to get her interested in him through explaining how each flower conveys a subtle message through its scent. Lavender to soothe, rose to entice and patchouli to awaken and arouse the senses.
He sits her on the bed and waves the flowers around her auric field. She sees colours changing around them.
The Dreamweaver – age 12
It is a bookshop. She queues up with her brother to check on a list. Another boy was in the queue too. She says she loves her brother for being really nice to her and letting her inconvenience him. She seems happy. He seems a little sad and entranced. He speaks so softly to her. She barely makes out the words but his body language closed up. He too has a brother who had taken money from people and disappeared. He seems sad.
Her hands reaches out in a compassionate touch on his left shoulder. He seems a little shocked. Is it inappropriate? She asks. They go somewhere together, alone in a room. He carries her up onto a dresser table. She uses hypnotic word language on him as she controls his every move.
She is on the ninth floor which is the tallest area of the building around. The lift area is beautifully decorated with Victorian type of paintings of angels. A big theatrical like showcase of paintings that move. She is fascinated by the back of an angel where wings emanate.
She enters the lift with another girl and a guy with only his upper body on a skateboard for legs. They go to the first floor. She passes by a corridor of a neighbor with flowering plants which has thorns creeping across the corridor walkway. She tries to side step the plants to make sure she does not damage them.
The Dreamweaver – age 32
She holds two rings and a stone to sleep. How it soothes her heart each night and a smile awakes her each morning. She remembers the feeling and sensation of content; just for this moment of gratitude. For now, she knows the most perfect angel in this lifetime is here – her most perfect angel.
She has flashes of memories of all the souls in her life. She wonders if they are real. Some part of her loves them for what they show her of herself when she is with them. Names familiar to her roll out in random sequence, everyone she has met even if just for a brief while.
Right here and now she imagines herself together with each of them again, replaying memories and possibilities, feeling both content and confused.
She knows how she seems to make every dream a reality. Someone to meditate with and to share happiness with.
They either forgave her or did not know who she was. It is okay. They are very nice people with a future ahead and a past before them. They know what they want in life, even if it appears chaotic to them. They all have a destination point in mind they race to; what is shared in memory. There is something she sees in all of them – The vastness of being.
The Dreamweaver – age 33
Some of us remember that one consciousness. Most of us are lost in our fractured consciousness. Fractals of what is allowed for separation and exploration. i guess we got bored of colourless purity. Passing through form to better explore this dimension.
The Dreamweaver – age 29
Another scene in which she wanders. An area where people perform and get together. Some groups are performing acrobatic tricks, others musical repertoires. She moves to a corner on her left and sits down on the ground in front of a barricading line.
To her left, a monk robed in orange gold and maroon. The area quickly fills up and a procession soon starts. The elder monks are coming in a straight line from her left center. The monk seated on her left draws closer into her space. He is close, really close. She notices that he is prostrating in the little space that he has without encroaching on anyone around him. She discreetly tries to make space for him without disturbing or distracting him.
As the master monks draw nearer, they wave blessings upon the crowds with silk cloth sutras that they hold in their right hands. They seem to focus on her area and send blessings in the wind twice - Double blessings. One of them stops in his line and comes over to her continuously fanning blessings towards her and the monk on her left.
She notices then that the monk has formed a full body prostration and has a woven sack cloth shroud on his back. He seems to be crying. She senses a loss of family but is helpless to comfort or help.
The Dreamweaver – age 9
A class of uniforms with an instructor she knows. They disinfect their hands and are instructed on the importance of their skills. She chats to her fellow classmate. He likes chatting with her even if he seldom has much to say. She is giving him her attention and that is enough to make him smile for the day thinking about her.
They roam the school halls after. She sees her reflection on a mirrored wall, hair in a ponytail, crisp dress uniform. They are queuing for something with other boys. One bigger boy, taller and well built in uniform gives her a hug from behind. He smiles and gives her a light kiss near her temple.
Children and babes holding sunflowers as the students photograph them as creatively as they can. One of the babes has rashes and was crying. She applies powder and reiki to soothe him. She observes their group travelling and working.
The Dreamweaver – age 13
They are on top of a hill which overlooks the sculpted fields. Mountains in the distant glow in the late afternoon sun. A breeze rustles the green leaves of young trees as it scatters the golden ones on the stony ground.
The group cordons her and her father and his acquaintances off to a corner as they form a circle facing the sun. Only her mother is part of the ritual group dressed in white. They believe they can change the world with their prayers and move unseen realities.
They vocally invoke their masters in dimensions which appear to cloud around them. They visualize images and sing invocations. They have certain facial features and expressions.
Some see a gold circle of a lotus flower. Three cloud beings appear above them watching them. One of them turn its attention to the girl on the outside of the circle.
They see each other without eyes. They just know they are mutally watching each other.
The Dreamweaver – age 5
They look around them and see colours that they want to play with. So they come to be a part of this life. Colours they have but can only really experience when they are fractured. They bring colours to life, to her. Every shade.
Each one a deeper shade of love. Some obvious, other more subtle. So easy to find. So easy to remember. Just that little bit closer to that magical feeling she can feel.
Each cloud, each particle, each drop, one vast life form, just like her. Just like you. She is distracted. It is okay, look at this world they are creating with her.
Moments in moments.still these are the games we play together. That little dot on the surface will soon be no more.
Pieces of colourful tourmaline scatter around. She goes about picking them up, piece by piece. A trail of something, or someone. She vaguely remembers a tall male figure. A gold ring set with a green stone that glowed on her finger.
The Dreamweaver – age 17
Into the spaces between spaces where words and forms have no meaning, no power without imagination or emotion. The magic lies within the pauses, the silent space between thoughts; that which is expressed and that which is non-sense. Therein lies the magic space of creation. Where intention is silent and co-creates the unsensed.
Who are you? Asks the little one. Who is she? He thinks. Who is he? She questions. Who am i? I wonder. Who was it? They whisper. Who could they be? The minds chorus. Who would we be? It says.
If you want to know what to be in this life, look into the corners of your soul where you will find a star. You shall reach for it. There you can find a map for the path you are to take. For there in vague visions of your dreamtime, quiver the folded wings of an angel in earthe to bring forth heaven.
The Dreamweaver – age 28
Twelve tribes sit in a circle. In front of them twelve skulls of various species and colours but all with two eye sockets and a cranium.
Embers grow from a central flame. Choose.
She sits in the circle watching the twelve. They are entranced by their choices.
They make elaborate visualizations and intricate patterns hover around them. She watches them and the skulls as each choose the other. She feels nothing for this circle of beings.
Each pair sparks an understanding to harness a specific stellar contract. She can only watch the specimens evolve with an engaging detachment.
The core of these interactions draws her in as she sees the chords of displacement for each choice they make. The web of sounds interlacing distance and design. Choirs of consciousness filtering through each named with gifts and purposes.
She says nothing. Her silence is her power to harness the void of thoughts and emotions.
The Dreamweaver – age 15
A dead star rests in eternity. It is surrounded by its exhaled ashes. It has sent out its essence in white photons banded on a passing comet. They will pass through spatial dimensions and gain structure upon finding water and carbon.
Carbon-based life is most malleable yet fragile. Hydrogen is abundant in all parts of the spiral framework. With water and earth, the white particles will channel its shape and crystallize its function to grow.
The DNA spiral is deftly one code out of the range that populates the land. It is too slight to be easily noticed yet subject to the carbon and water rules.
Stones singing and growing in dreams. Radii grow into new stones pink and blue. She falls asleep with two pink stones and hears them sing to her. In them seeds that sprout into new growths in her hand. Some crack open to reveal a core of new stones perfectly formed.
The Dreamweaver – age 3
Every story has its truth and its fiction. All languages can be understood. Interacting across species in all forms, elements source love, gene code of every sentient being encoded.
Truth comes to her and through her heart to feel.
There is a sensation that someone is watching her too as she breathes this dream. She looks around but sees no one, she knows there are eyes on her.
The Dreamweaver – age 4
Six children running around a village, playing tag with each other. She watches them and smiles at the remembrance of her tagging with them. Their joyful screams seem to turn into fearful shrieks. For a moment, she turn and see the children scatter at the sound.
Two of them have fallen into a well. Injured and drowning. She picks up their bodies weak and she knows she can bring them back. She feels the pulse of life in her hands. The most perfect healing is in thine power alone, lord, she breathes only intention. If they wish to return, thy will be done in earthe.
They seem so fragile on the verge of existence. Then a strength commands their breath and they sputter back to life.
She learns of death, of life, of a grace begotten.
The Dreamweaver – age 5
She sees them clearly. She is sure they see her too. She is out in the open view, hiding from none. A twisting ribbon of colours, a rainbow in the clear skies.
A baby mammoth snuggles her, bleating its opinion. A big billowing ribbob rainbow forms above them. It covered the span of the sky like the stars at night. The river of stars replaced.
She recorded the sight in her mind, capturing details and intensities. Discs that appear with the colours, fire-like clouds of colours. One seem bigger than the others. Grid and flight formation.
The rainbow billow disappears, vacuuming into itself, imploding.
The Dreamweaver – age -1
I am human now and everything I bought to date I bought a story. I hang onto the stories because they define my life, give it a story, its story, meaning, to cut through the matter, to know its existence, its nature.
How it works, I am grateful for all the hints along the way to remind us of a fun and purposeful existence. Of bonds we makes, of colours and sounds.
This human experiment we did it to us. These entities we live with and within us, around us. The network. The ghosting of neurons, it breathes life
Different civilizations come and go with each of us. The twelve tribes in symbiosis with a thirteenth. Gateways and alignments through, in and with.
The Dreamweaver – age 11
She vaguely remembers him. They meet and travel together. He looks good and she enjoys his company. They do not exchange names or contact, they simply share their time and space for a while.
Her dreams are getting too close to home. Her real name is revealed. Travel, they have to go their separate ways for a while. Written notes wishing upon a star.
Life forms, celestial nymphs, pyramids we build. She sings her tone. A mentor, big and jolly guy, watching her. Animals with almost human faces. Yet something is wrong, all those who mate, die, their bodies' life force is siphoned out by the celestial nymphs which are parasites. Beautiful and deadly.
Stones, jewels. She is given on ring of a double stone – one yellow-god, and one sea-green-blue. She declines. She is weaning her dependence on stones. She is given a smile of approval. It has been done before.
We learn, we train to control our thoughts, emotions because people have minds expand to read us.
Symbols, languages on each stone. We emit a sound from within and it moves, rotates and grows, glows. There is a pattern and life in them that grows and inspires. Stones, stars and orbs in a big pool of water. So many of us swimming together.
The Dreamweaver – age 20
A simple sandstone temple looms before the travellers whom she meets for a joyride. They are welcomed by a monk in saffron robes who ushers them into narrow walkways and overlapping entrances into spacious rooms with filled with statues and smoking incense. She can smell the various concoctions that make them feel safe and protected within these rooms.
They are allowed to explore the place and so she does, mindfully aware of the beautifully carved pieces that adorn the walls and shelves. She recognizes the abundant deep navy stone sparingly embedded with gold flecks. Lazuli echoes in her mind as she reverently puts her touch gently on the granulated surface of an object that looks like an open flower molded from the night sky.
She traces the petals that seem to glitter indigo and sparkle gold.
The Dreamweaver – age 26
The huge, gilded doors open into a cavernous space. It contains many sections which are coded in colours, like a rainbow honeycomb. She is swathed in so many hues that seem to breathe its own life and language.
She focuses her attention on any colour that seems more relevant in that moment and it opens a new door into another cavern which appears to be a white blank until she notices vague flickers of shadows that enhance into its network of representations with her mind’s eye. Here curtains of white glowing symbols cascade so quickly that it forms a white background in every space.
Dreamweaver - age 20
I felt the protection and love of a white tiger, a snow lion and an artic wolf. They are our metta beings. He returns from faraway and presents me with a wood carving gift of a uni-horned animal. I am so happy to see him again and hug him welcome.
The open sky with clouds on a distant crimson horizon. That looks like the head of a tiger in the approaching clouds, I observed. We are all morphing, he says, all species, but not all are of the earth here. The uni-horned being is starting to look more like me with a humanoid body.
He lazes comfortably.on the wooden pine floor. He begins to turn into a white tiger, majestic and beautiful. He does not remember transforming into such a creature but I do. I see him and he is magnificent. He watches over me and moves closer to me. I am a little awed and a bit afraid but the white tiger with pale grey stripes and blue eyes speak, I shall protect you.
A commotion. Another being approaches, one with ill intent. He growls as his senses pick up the other intruder's presence coming too close to me. He sees what I see too late - a huge serpent is rearing for its prey. My brave white tiger fought fiercely and bravely. The serpent is dead. He wins and is human again.
He is injured and I tend to his wounds. He morphs further into a dwarf alien being as his other friends gather about to help him. I bid him well and gave thanks for his courage. He gives me a string of white coral shells from his pocket - for protection, he says. No, I refuse to take it and pushed his proffered hand back into his pocket. Thank you, my brave one, but you need these shells more.
My human form cannot last, I explain. It is too fragile for morphing, for being, I cry softly at the helplessness of it all - How can I be of service when I cannot even help you. He looks at me thoughtfully and tenderly, you can and will learn, and I shall remain with you.
He dismisses his friends. He decides to stay behind to guard and guide me. I am immensely touched by his kindness. He changes again into his regular human form.
Do the others remember how we are connected as well, I ask. Some do, he pauses to reflect, they remember partially in their subconscious souls. They need to hear the right frequencies first, the correct connection is in a musical sound. I wonder if I can help them recall the stars we came from. The planet's composer has left clues embedded.
Three thousand eons to construct the pieces for the ecto and endo morphs. Three Four Nine. I muse at the dates and numbers that cross my mind. There are others to find. As I protect his identity, I shall respect and protect theirs - of crystal stars and wing makers.
Dreamweaver - age 40
St Peter is a kindly bespectacled man with too many souls in his care. So many hearts to take charge of and hold dear. He has an erudite sense of humour and has saved me from myself thrice. For that I am grateful to him and his team of blue angels. They recognize me and rejoice that I am back on my feet.
St Peter is swarmed with so many cases, yet his compassion and gentle nature held steadfast. I can see the weight of this world upon his shoulders, the lives of those gone and the souls of many to come. A guardian saint is as busy as any of the archangeli. He did choose this line of work; it is his passion. I shall miss him for a while.
Dreamweaver - age 22
// I watched her as she watched her husband attract the attention of petite ladies vying for his attention. I could feel her painful jealousy at having to trust her husband around these animated flirts. She held herself as best she could and walked out of the scene. I followed her out. She paused and counted seconds, one, ten, fifteen. He followed her cue and left the amorous girls behind in favor of his young wife.
// She was too overwhelmed by her feelings and hugged me for emotional support. Her hurt was so great that she forgot how frail my body was and squeezed me much too tightly. I shouted at her to let me go but she was mentally too far removed in her own sorrow that she could not hear me or remember me.
// My fingernails dug deeply into her forearms in an effort to make her return to her body. My bones felt like they would soon snap and I could not breathe. My nails soon broke her skin and drew her red rich blood to the surface. This physical injury only amplified her emotional wound, such was the power of the mind over body.
Dreamweaver - age 19
Well dressed people with means to harm. They kill him slowly with poison. He can sense the paralysis of death on his body. His mind control is clouded and his consciousness is harnessed in a daze. He knows too much and they need his silence. If not his death, he will then be muted in body and mind.
He tries to tell his family about the Seed. A recording that he is part of. The information must be preserved and they have to piece it together without him. Maybe he can reach out in some small way to make them find out more quickly how precarious all of this is.
A pale snake hides beneath the table where they work. It cannot hurt them but there is another creature which is much more skilled at torment - a leech-like creature with a snaking body. It seeks out the females to impregnate them with its poison so that their children too will be muted.
He is in dire urgency to express the danger yet the poison has already affected his body and his behaviour is no longer of his own volition. He appears autistic and mentally challenged yet his thoughts are clear and focused. He must warn them about the well dressed people and the creature they have unleashed.
He has witnessed the callousness and cruelty of the crafted creature whose circular mouth has rows of razor sharp teeth to tear through the wombs of mothers, sisters and daughters and infect their bloodlines and genomes. There is hope in eight pods to relay a message and an antidote to thwart the catastrophe.
She is tortured, naked and left for eventual death by a crew who desired her secret. She gives them nothing, only silent screams and shuddering pain. Her body is wrecked and her mind has fled. Now even if she wants to to tell the others, she cannot communicate as she did before.
He tries to help her, to make her better and to gently coax the information from her fragmented mind. He is patient, as this is of utmost importance to the survival of his species. She is the key and she is broken yet she wants to help him too.
A school of children to protect. They scatter in all directions after detecting the anomalies of light. There are too many and they have to evacuate.
Dreamweaver - age 90
He sits on the edge of a queen sized bed in a large but barely furnished room, missing someone badly. There is a girl sitting next to him, leaning so closely by his right side. He is not missing this girl but another one faraway. The girl is engaged in her animated chatter as he is lost in his contemplation of her not being here.
He nods in occasional reverie and the girl thinks he is paying attention. He feels the emptiness of the room. The walls seem so bare except for a picture on the wall of that faraway place where she is at. He can almost remember her being there. The girl laughs about something, but he is smiling at his memories of her.
She has left him behind to that place in the picture on the wall. His heart’s perspective of being left behind, of choices and consequences for not being around in times need is tainted by love. She is to be missed by loved ones who get by and get along. Somewhere in the distant land, in another world, he is sure she too is sharing the same sense of loneliness.
The girl has stopped chattering and he does not recall the girl leaving the room but she is not there. The girl’s chatter is replaced by the chords of a familiar song, their song. Every once in a long while, when their hearts get together, they hear this song and with those precious moments seek to make only better memories to stay afloat for the next bout of time apart.
He understands that she cannot stay. It is her duty to be far away. She will return when her heart has had enough of wandering the earth. She will finally come home to love. Please come back home. Time waits for no one and his room, his mortal flesh and mind will soon be gone. He begins to hum. Maybe he can sing to her and she will hear him.
The girl returns to his side, smiling. He notices her for the first time it seems and smiles back.
There you are.
Dreamweaver - age 9
She walked along a barely visible path with faded stones. It seemed as if it had been trodden on before so very long ago. She had one life with a purpose to continue living imperfectly. Her reality was defined by no one else. There, without guarantee, she would live through the changes that happen yet she was filled with faith for each moment.
The garden seemed lush and overgrown, yet friendly. She knew each tree and root, every leaf and blade. They appeared evergreen, dotted with specks of colours. Flowers, she assumed, for they did not move. She had that independent and self confident sentiment – Everything will be okay in the end, as it should be.
A gust of wind blows playfully around her and sweeps up the points of rainbows, like snow flakes flickering about her. She had seen how the moments unfold to make a connection with the next moment and is fully appreciative of the loops and rides through the currents of time. One coloured flake danced for her attention in front of her. She put out her left hand and it skipped and hopped into her palm.
In it she saw the glitter of a tiny heart with hope for better things to come. The other flakes seemed to be facing a rough time in the mild wind and made efforts to keep afloat. The trees looked like they too shared the physical trials and mental tribulations of these little dots, for they felt sorry and let them rest on their wooden surfaces. They whispered in the breeze, encouraging them to carry on surviving past the developmental mistakes and the emotional failures, “Be true tiny hearts and be the best little spots, be.”
She imagined she too was a little spot as she walked on. Other spots seem braver now to approach her after that first little dot. The tiny heart that had pretended plenty while floating aimlessly in the drafts to be something it was not. It acted all confident when thrown into the leadership limelight of having been the first to contact this girl. It was not very sure if it would be squished. Others would soon try to follow it but they were all over the girl – only it managed to get some of her interest.
The brave dot had falsely conducted optimism to pull through the pain of surviving life in a gust; it appeared courageous when tears threaten to overwhelm a fragile existence; it behaved decently enough while exploring the currents of life even though it too had misbehaved some. This tiny heart with its infinitesimal mind knew exactly what it could be in reality as it rested in her palm.
She grinned at its innocence – the clarity of knowing some answers in life often did not comfort the mind, but if this smallest heart could make just a bit of peace with that token wisdom, it could go on fruitfully and prosperously in so many possible ways.
She had come so far and caught a few of those dreamy moments; of proverbial stars that fell into her life with opportunities that she took and became dreams realized. She watched each speck grow into these stupendous stars and felt ever grateful. The trees continued as sentinels to the curious young spirits keen on discoveries, adventures and experiences.
“Remember to do and be true to thy self; Love who thou art.”
She made her way past woods of green and golden browns and met a blue frog lounging beside a small stream, strumming a banjo and humming a tune. She was so amused. There were two wise old birds of paradise with colourful plummage perched atop the tree the frog was sitting under. They were half appreciating the frog’s musical talent and half engaged in some philosophy about life in the sky. It seemed like a long time ago that they had spread wings.
The tune sounded like a nursery rhyme, about rowing boats merrily and gently. The blue frog had eyes as dark as night, yet friendly with sparkles of starlight in them. She was fascinated and unafraid. She went up closer to the frog to listen to its tune. It maintained its song on the banjo while watching her pick a stone to sit on opposite it.
At the last note, they were friends. Somewhere between life and a dream, they understood each other. What do you like, asked the frog. The girl thought of the little speck which she had left behind to grow on a particularly tree. I like rainbows, she replied.
One of the birds of paradise with tourmaline feathers drifted into the conversation. It too loved the discovery of arching rainbows especially after a stormy day. The other bird with striking silver white plumage poohed on the idea as optical illusions of the grandest scale, useless, unlike its beautiful feathers. The two old birds quickly got into another of their long debates.
The frog strummed on, unaffected by the birds. A colourful mystery is it not, mused the frog looking skywards, such poetic fodder for philosophers, dreamers and artists, stirring great creativity and visions. The girl thought she saw rainbows in the frog’s eyes as it mulled over the subject.
The biggest personal romance of all, the frog continued, and whatever is on the other side is whatever. The frog paused midway and looked at the girl as if she completed the thought. It is whatever your heart chooses to believe. She really did see a rainbow in its eyes.
She was up in the clouds in an instant. The earth and woods beneath her and the sky above strewn with stars. One little puffy cloud stood out among the white. It had a mess of colours like a rainbow yet not in the usual pretty arc. It floated close by her and semed to be aware of her presence.
Is that a rainbow you are carrying, she asked the little cloud. No, not yet, the cloud answered. I have not found two points to place it on. Until I find two points of connection then it becomes a rainbow for the sky admirers and the star gazing dreamers to envision infinite possibilities, unseen and unhidden.
It beamed cheerfully at the girl, using its rainbow potential material to shape a smile.She and the little cloud watched as little bursts of light started falling to the earth. Shooting stars, exclaimed the little cloud.
Dreamweaver - age 63
There were many people on that poor land, now there were thousands of bodies lain down as if sleeping but not breathing. A lowly desert of some kind yet with wealth that was not visible to certain eyes. A sand storm had passed this area and killed most of them. The few who survived were very sad.
Some other non desert people poured in from the sky. They jumped out of air borne transportation and landed in spaces between the bodies. Some of the bodies exchanged places with these new people and went up into the air vehicles.
She was singing as tears flowed down her face. It could have been a song for souls; she was not sure where she had learnt it. She was singing it to a middle aged man lying in front of her kneeling form. He seemed barely alive but he was. She could see his chest rise ever so slightly. Her song seemed to be helping him.
Night was approaching and campfires were lighting up. Shadows of children moved among the adult bodies. It seemed only the children survived, or maybe they came from the sky. She kept on singing until she saw the first star to her right which burned quite brightly.
The children started joining in songs around the campfires. They stood tall and proud as if they were the voices and the guiding lights of the desert souls. Ignorant of the implication of the words to their songs, they left the choices of right or wrong to the star in the sky; the little hearts do not bother to question why life in the desert could be so strange.
She heard the vague booms of war canons. They seemed so far away and joined in chorus to the children’s voices. She was swiftly transported to various exploding war scenes of loss, destruction and decay. No love song singing in distant voices could soothe the cause of the immense pain and suffering of any war.
She felt the loneliness of courage as she took a stand and stopped singing. Her tears had dried but now the fears of a strange land stirred empathy within her. A single tear of a last emotion for mothers and fathers in pain, praying for sons and daughters conscripted from distant worlds to serve someone else’s military plan, in someone else’s desert land.
She heard a cacophony of voices from people wishing that they never had to choose to kill and people wishing they had a chance not to be killed. Who really wins what, when there are so many who lose everything.
This World could find a way to peace, it must. And when her eyes closed again tonight, for her final time, it is with joined palms for true peace to be shared in this world of chaos that burned brighter than the star in the sky. Many had prayed for souls to come and make the future brighter and make the wrong things righter.
She had landed rather morbidly on a mine field of emotions. She knew then she had came with the other children from the sky and her heart craved for peace more than chaos but her voice was too soft without her friends, they would have been mindlessly squished like naïve ants in this desert.
Dreamweaver - age 17
He was in a gentlemen’s club of some sort, and dressed rather well for a teenager. It made him look older and more dashing given that the ladies, who have probably seen more men in their lifetimes, seem to be looking and smiling his way. He certainly did not feel old. He also did not drink or smoke.
He was waiting for someone, tapping his fingers on the edge of the table. There was a half-played game of chess in front of him. He was not sure how he could have played this well.
She caught his ear first. She had said something witty about an ocean of tears and a sea of pee. He found it amusing. He was being intoxicated by her sound. She was partially hidden among a group of men who were equally well dressed and drunk on her wits. They clustered around her, finding small ways to let her know she was an object of affection.
They were romantically rude but effective in their advances in a not so threatening way compared to the more overt or perverted manners of some of the other men in the club that he had seen. Somehow, she was respected among these men.
He seemed to know her on sight, and she him. It felt like they were a couple, yet he felt no jealousy towards the men surrounding her. The other chess player returned to the game and he was filled with a sense of intense dislike for this person.
He tried to use his body to block his opponent’s view of the girl. He did not succeed as his opponent was also entranced by her words and was attempting to trace the source. Some things had to give; someone could not undo what was done last night, she said. It seemed their relationship status has evolved and that made him direly protective of her.
His opponent seemed to know her too, asked him, what if his heart never asked her heart about the time; a time for that season. No use wondering why nothing has happened yet if that heart is only thinking about making its move tonight but not making the actual move, the rival said, make up your mind indeed, and take it further – take her home.
Was this to be the mutual attraction of friends turning lovers, or the stalker infatuation of one guy hitting on his target? Whether this was part of the mixed signals and intent, his competition was a better flirt than he.
Amusing, confusing and most disconcerting that this person could put in so little effort to coax her to take the seat next to him.
The collective time spent together playing the rest of this game of chess bred familiarity between them. Physical contact seemed most potent in cementing the bond of any deal, and she had touched his forearm innocuously.
She was distracting him from the game of chess, he could lose to this opponent; there were so few pieces of his left on the board game. She seemed concerned that he was losing. She did not want him to lose the king and he did not want to sacrifice his queen.
Indecision with the best intentions and faded courage would lose far more opportunities.
#EarthStarLight
#DreamTimeTales
#1000Dreams
#WorldsWithoutEnd
A novel adventure for NanNoWriMo November 2013. Unedited.This page may not be sufficient to hold the entire NaNoWriMo November 2013 novel adventure of 50,000+ words, hence I shall tag DreamTimeTales in various posts and I do hope we continue our adventures together around the matrix of this miniscule space.
I hope you are enjoying the first few fragments of these worlds. May each DreamTime fragment lead you to new discoveries of our words and worlds without end.
