Seasons Bring
Dreams are made of wants that you wish to transpire.
I was always told that the notion of a dream was not complex. That it was just riddled with endless possibilities, to the point where it became more elaborate than it should be. A dream was not one to make sense, Grand Klaus has told me (“Zack my boy, only if it rids the drought of the world,”) I never truly understood what he meant by that. Grand Klaus was so old that I believed him to be ions away from us in terms of language, thought, and mind. I couldn’t ask Grand Klaus, that’s if I want my mind to spiral in the hearth of confusion.
Sometimes my dreams go like this:
I’d land in a field, and that field would be so big I could line dozens of watermelon shaped elephants; sprawled across and I’d still have space for two mammoths. The field was so luscious that when I touched blades of grass, it felt like the strands of an angel’s hair. The field was so colorful, that the sky would not be blue, but instead; it splashed an Ombre. I can never tell when orange is most dominant, or pink, but there is always blue somewhere hidden-- it felt like an enigma. The blue would giggle and only both of us knew it was there. Sometimes I’d travel those fields, and I’d meet all sorts of things. People, animals, simple things, The air smelt like coffee, roast fresh beans, warm foamy fluff. A splash of cinnamon, a dribble of zest. I can’t explain it to anyone, how?
It did not end there.
In the dream I’d go further than the field, I’d walk along a cobblestone path, and each path I stepped on would release a shrill melody--it meant I was closer. Closer to what you may ask? After the path I’d meet a long winding stream, and in that stream I’d meet a duck. It’s a very funny duck, that duck asks me riddles. I’d solve those riddles, and then that duck laughs and swims away. After the winding stream, I’d come across another path, it’s not a very remarkable one, normal grass, normal trees that occasionally have apples that fall to my head. And when it does I’d wince, because no matter how many times an apple falls, it hurts. And then finally I’d reach a meadow, and that meadow was so serene I wouldn’t expect something like this to ever be real, in which it wasn’t, because if it was it would be ruined by those with no morals. The meadow is soft, it was dappled with flowers, all flowers. And there was always a girl amidst those flowers, and I guess--bashfully, she’s the prettiest flower of all.
Hair like oak, skin like milk, eyes of emerald on one and the crystalline sea on the other. She’d laugh and then I’d run to her. But it’s odd, every time I dream of her, I’d forget it. Only to an extent of her luscious locks before I completely succumb to reality.
Cinnamon.
My life was not odd, per se, but these dreams made it.
I work in an observatory; I’d look at the stars, I’d see the big dipper; then the little dipper; then the hunter and the bear. Then the moon looms before me, me and my telescope and the floor all scattered with compendiums. I’d wish to follow the stars, they’d only flicker, they blink. But they’d never take me.
Today a woman came.
We don’t expect guests, I don’t expect guests, but I seem to forget below my little post of celestial discovery was a bookstore. Racing down the ladder from a little shaft of the roof was not fun, but perhaps going down the stairs to the first level and experiencing first-hand the smell of the burnt wood from Grand Klaus’s fireplace was enjoyable. The bells rang, then I heard a “Hello?” come from the door. They always said hello, because nobody tended to the store, that’s not the point. I rate the hello’s: Some are shrill, cheerful; some are lonely, sad; some are angry, some are sophisticated.
Hers was lovely.
Cheerful; she was calm, she was not in a haste and wasn’t running through the rush. Cinnamon, it was like cinnamon. She had brown hair, it was luscious--like oak. She had skin tinted ivory, eyes blue and green.
Wait a minute.
My face looked towards her. I was shocked: I know this woman.
She didn’t seem to think otherwise.
Her eyes blink, my eyes quiver. Then her eyes widened, my eyes remained still. She smiles, and then she gasps in awe, she purses her lips, maybe she can’t believe it, I certainly can’t, is it a coincidence, I learn about stars everyday, did they sign today? Was this what the stars were doing? Was this where it was going to take me?
Her mouth opened slowly:
“I see you in my dreams.”
My life was quite odd.
