Thursday, February 10, 2011

The Hunt

I had a dream. A dream that’s happened before. In the night it happens, over the patio, up the stairs, and through the hallways. Third door from the dead end hallway on the left. Dark red/purplish oak door with a brass handle and I always open it. It leads into a large dark lit room, full of old chests and a dusty bed. Look outside the window and there is the sea, the night, the day and the sandy beach. 

I don’t want to leave this room. I love this room. I don’t want to go but once the recognition hits then all dreams are lost. I try to cling onto lucidity but it slips away.

My eyes are open and I’m not dreaming anymore. Instead I’m wishing for sleep again, only so I'd get back to that scene because it’s connected to a deep river of ink. It’s a missing piece to a memory I strive to capture. A searing unforgotten movie of the white house, a round wooden room featured in the museum, all of it enduring the maze of hallways perforated with frosted windows. Doors that led into empty dark rooms where chains were strewn about, those chains that held no one and left onlookers very confused.  

So nix the afterthoughts and scram old belly-achers. I’m in this job alone and I don’t want any comrades, square? This deal's cold so drop what you know if the knowings worth the drop and hide it. A body’s bed is curious: light the sheets and leave.

You didn’t hear this, b
ut I had a dream and I’m hunting that mother down.

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