![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
What Did You Dream of Last Night?
Jan. 10th, 2009 01:31 amIt's smooth and cool against your cheek.
Smooth like a stone the river's danced over again and again and again. The river always thinking that it is the one in control, ruling. Winning the day. It makes its mark on the stone, never doubting it will eventually submit. What the river doesn't know? Is that the rock is just as powerful, in its own way. Every bit and piece of it that's opened wide, every crevice opened wide like a wound? It leaves parts of itself behind, swept up in the unforgiving current of it all.
So the river - the commanding, controlling river is altered too. It's taken something new within itself and it will never be the same.
At least the rock has a sense of what is happening. Does the river even know?
You're the rock in the story, but you feel for the river all the same. And as you drift away into the place that's less than wakefullness, you wonder why that is.
It's still there. The smooth and the cool, in your dream.
That's the word for it.
A dream.
It sooths you like a lullaby, because there isn't a place for sound here. It isn't allowed, and it isn't safe.
Words and whispered instead, mumbled really and you hear songs in the silences in between, the odd beauty in the way the patterns become disjointed and never quite fit together right anymore. You are your only company anymore. Perhaps it really is best if you never know what you're going to say.
Awake gets further and further away.
So wonderfully far as that last little sliver of light behind your eyes slips into true darkness. It's the struggled surrender of not wanting to hold on anymore, and a desperate need to not let go.
But the smooth, cool surface is there to catch you. And there's one more thing.
It's soft.
Unending softness that cradles you. It's the way you imagine arms that look like yours must feel. Only, more than that. Two sets of arms, with voices and patterns and music of their own. Arms that seem to know you. They hold you close, and you believe that it is possible to love them.
When they're there, it is ok to let the darkness take over. To just let go.
It runs the full length of you. The smooth and the cool and the soft. You curl up into it and the pleasure of it runs that much deeper. Each breath brings comes back to you mated with the soft scent of of some kind of flower. It fills the spaces in your mouth and you wish then you could know just what the flower looks like.
And there's the seductive weight of something over you that reads like company, pressure and contact and not being alone. Fingers grasp at the malleable, downy softness with the rhythmic touch of a baby at the breast.
It's not dirt under your fingertips or soil on your hands or rocks..because you're still the rock. Rocks on the walls and where the math lives and it's how you'll get back.
You're the rock.
The math.
The way.
At it's....
It's your bed.
One day, it won't be the dream anymore. It'll be what you get back out of when the dreaming's done.
Smooth like a stone the river's danced over again and again and again. The river always thinking that it is the one in control, ruling. Winning the day. It makes its mark on the stone, never doubting it will eventually submit. What the river doesn't know? Is that the rock is just as powerful, in its own way. Every bit and piece of it that's opened wide, every crevice opened wide like a wound? It leaves parts of itself behind, swept up in the unforgiving current of it all.
So the river - the commanding, controlling river is altered too. It's taken something new within itself and it will never be the same.
At least the rock has a sense of what is happening. Does the river even know?
You're the rock in the story, but you feel for the river all the same. And as you drift away into the place that's less than wakefullness, you wonder why that is.
It's still there. The smooth and the cool, in your dream.
That's the word for it.
A dream.
It sooths you like a lullaby, because there isn't a place for sound here. It isn't allowed, and it isn't safe.
Words and whispered instead, mumbled really and you hear songs in the silences in between, the odd beauty in the way the patterns become disjointed and never quite fit together right anymore. You are your only company anymore. Perhaps it really is best if you never know what you're going to say.
Awake gets further and further away.
So wonderfully far as that last little sliver of light behind your eyes slips into true darkness. It's the struggled surrender of not wanting to hold on anymore, and a desperate need to not let go.
But the smooth, cool surface is there to catch you. And there's one more thing.
It's soft.
Unending softness that cradles you. It's the way you imagine arms that look like yours must feel. Only, more than that. Two sets of arms, with voices and patterns and music of their own. Arms that seem to know you. They hold you close, and you believe that it is possible to love them.
When they're there, it is ok to let the darkness take over. To just let go.
It runs the full length of you. The smooth and the cool and the soft. You curl up into it and the pleasure of it runs that much deeper. Each breath brings comes back to you mated with the soft scent of of some kind of flower. It fills the spaces in your mouth and you wish then you could know just what the flower looks like.
And there's the seductive weight of something over you that reads like company, pressure and contact and not being alone. Fingers grasp at the malleable, downy softness with the rhythmic touch of a baby at the breast.
It's not dirt under your fingertips or soil on your hands or rocks..because you're still the rock. Rocks on the walls and where the math lives and it's how you'll get back.
You're the rock.
The math.
The way.
At it's....
It's your bed.
One day, it won't be the dream anymore. It'll be what you get back out of when the dreaming's done.
