dream

Date: 10/20/2016

In my dream I was said to have been given the secret of poetry. It was a singular image which, trying to remember now, I cannot recall very well. It was objects which were of another dimension overlain onto this one, it seemed. The image came in a sunlit wooden room, and I saw it as picassian overlayings of colorful forms imposed on corporeal things. Maybe what this implicates is truly the secret of poetry. In any case, the dream went on, and I was transferred to the university. It was exacerbated in its technology, though and the revivalist architecture was replaced. Everywhere was modernist architecture's flourescence and structures spanning dark and grey. Elevators sired forth night and day, and everybody let through both silently. It was as if here everything was subtly falling into place. A homeostasis was achieved as new buildings dawned with the day. The dream ended as I left the building, and another one began. In this dream I took a bus through mountains to a very far away place. It was as if I traveled through the orient and came to an alcove to finally rest. The driver who drove the bus asked me if I knew where I was going, and if I was okay. I answered and read a book, looking through the window occasionally. At the restpoint I met caravans of strangers, each with their particular purpose. They were like pilgrims at a singular impasse, and we talked and then left separate ways. It was winter then in the place where I landed, the sky was heavily vaporous, the streams Held lotus blossoms fallen from trees, and night was soon, with its silvered stars, coming. At this the dream had ended in the horizon's decomposing of sun's beams.