The darkness is broken only by the occasional streetlight, passing cat or low flying seagull. Cars sit somnambulent awaiting the morning and the call to serve thier owner’s commutes. A fox turns sharp right as it sees me and is gone into the shadows.
Above me stars and around me silence as my cigarette burns away the reality and my eyes slip the leash of now and wander the ways of the dreaming world.
All my dreams are fallen yet unbroken, scattered around like velvet sheets of soft waiting that shed gentle threads toward the circumstances and things that engendered them or sustain them. It is funny how I cannot see the thread that leads from each of them to me, despite them being mine. Could it be that they acknowledge no possession beyond their creation, and merely blossom or wither in response to life and circumstance?
I see one of them is thicker than the others, because it’s moment is imminent. It is redolent with the heady spices of working in the City, but this time they are blended and softened with the earthy scents of my new reality, forged from the experiences of the last two years. This dream is ripe, it’s time dormant is done. Tomorrow or the next day it will burst into fruition or collapse back to velvet waiting.
With a smile I see that several of the dream velvets have threads leading to the ripened one. Shaking my head, I harvest these dependencies. Let my dreams stand alone and not be reliant on another’s resolution, for that way lies stagnation and narcissistic sadness. Or is the awareness of the ties enough to avoid those traps?
The distant sound of shuffling paper draws me back from my idyll. I have a lot of paperwork to sort out for tomorrow, a briefcase to load with the ephemera of professionalism, the ritual of ironing a shirt and checking that the suit is presentable.
This interview is crucial. It’s not the end of the world should I not get the job, but if I actually am as good at this as I have always maintained I could be, then I will have to reassess my competencies should I be turned down. Its all a learning process, but I have had enough of the lessons that involve tasting ashes and blood as I stagger along the long road down.
Unseen by me, soft velvets languish threads onto their one ripe fellow again, now that conciousness is not looking. I may have the best intentions, but the weavings of my id are my power and my ruin. Which is as it should be, no matter that I would have a lighter journey, the lessons are there to be learned, not avoided.
A soft wind blows along Dream Street. Hope stirs the velvets to restless movement and that undefined thing that makes a night sleepless finally has a reason: My dreams are scraping on each other.