12-19-2007, 03:44 AM
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indent There were often times in which the sleep of no-dreaming held sway. Darkness, sweet, silent, and complete, ruled over all. Tonight, though, was no such night. He could not remember falling asleep, though it must have occurred sometime in the dark after he had sat outside and smoked in the starlight. His dreams were not things in which he often treads, for they were filled of terrible danger. Yet here it was that tonight he walked, moving through his dreams well aware he was dreaming. The phenomenon was not unknown, not a rarity, nothing unique.
indent The landscape has not changed. He is at the edge of the lake, aware of the snow but no longer feeling it. It is not quite out-of-body, this feeling, but it is close. Perhaps it is what being a ghost is like; and he has seen ghosts and knows they are real, even if he does not accept it. He knows that the secret darkness in his eyes is real but does not accept it either. Denial was the strongest of all the weapons he has wielded. It carried him from his home, across the sea, and back again.
indent None of that matters now. He shuts his eyes, breathes out, and waits. Something will come. It always does.
indent The landscape has not changed. He is at the edge of the lake, aware of the snow but no longer feeling it. It is not quite out-of-body, this feeling, but it is close. Perhaps it is what being a ghost is like; and he has seen ghosts and knows they are real, even if he does not accept it. He knows that the secret darkness in his eyes is real but does not accept it either. Denial was the strongest of all the weapons he has wielded. It carried him from his home, across the sea, and back again.
indent None of that matters now. He shuts his eyes, breathes out, and waits. Something will come. It always does.