The Dream

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 In my dream, sunlight is streaming through the window. The air is fragrant with a sweet perfume - periwinkle, I believe, though I have never seen a periwinkle and have no idea if these flowers even have a discernible odour.

I am sitting at a desk, writing, my pen scribbling madly. Words are streaming onto the paper. I feel a sense of elation. I have uncovered a new paradigm, one that will shift the world into a new phase of evolution. But it is too revolutionary to write down as is, so I am writing a story, skating over the surface of the truth I’ve uncovered, back and forth, round and round, each cut of the blade chipping away at the ice of incomprehension.

My concentration is broken by the call of a blue jay. I rush to the window, for I have never seen a blue jay, unlatch the lock and throw open the pane. But I see no bird of any kind. In the blink of an eye, it has become night-time. All I can see are the city lights, a mesmerising sparkle of yellow, green and white, a Babylon of false promises and vain hopes.

The air is now tainted with the musty whiff of despair. I turn back to my writing desk only to find my manuscript has turned to dust.

What a sap. What a forlorn fool I am. I know no paradigm. I write no truths. I am drowning in the mud of my own delusion. I want to exfoliate my soul of pain and sorrow, jump into the great void without a parachute, fly to the centre of the Universe and find the place from whence I came.

When I awaken, my life as I knew it has ended. A new world has begun.