“DREAMS” by Dr. Eams Tein, Marias sur Seine, France

topic: DREAMS medium: TEXT

as shared at an event in Marias sur Seine

Dreams out of a box. Alice had no idea what the mystery was all about. The lights were on and off. The songs were keys to all the doors along the hall way. There’s a fine line, the white rabbit told her, my dear Alice, between your dreams and realities, take a closer look even at your dreams and nightmares.

Every minute and every second he counted, the other side of his identity, was a mask for his soul. Could it possibly be, one and the same thing? The good, and the bad? Justice defines a limit because there are mirrors on my window, and they do not belong in my world.

Prisms out of beams of light right through the ray. A candle dwindles lightly on a spiral beeswax, telling stories of every nook and cranny where these stories lived, within and without, a breeze, like an air, or an air like a breeze, takes her spirit away, an easy swift gesture sprouts from her hand, and she’s out. The scorn. How could the bad, the good, the ugly, all be one and the same thing. One is rotten and corrupt, the other is creative beautiful good, some are naive, and gray, until a choice is made, scarred or marred and put away like the slap of a book cover when the story ends.

And the shove of a book along the desk as it slides with a slump when the story ends in disappointment. Memories, like stories, riveted like a rolled up selvage of matter that sits on a leaf, evolving out of dreams, as they spin, into a genetic hard wire of reasonable expectations; butterflies were moths at one point in time, evolved into colorful wings escaping the wrath of bats, chased out of the darkness in caves. The moths grew ears on their backs, and became flying peacocks.

In light you find color. In the dark abyss of the night, in your mind, you find a dream, emulated by the light you have captured during the day. Dark and light, a dream, a reality. One and the same. When there is fear, you find the light, as you tumble out of caves.

What do we know about the other, what we do know about each other, is the signs of life we share. That is all we know.

The signs that are evident, that we all dream when our eyes are closed; some however; dream with their eyes open. They are but a few.

When letters on a page turn into shadows of a landscape you had seen during the day. This is a dream worth having. When the pen is extended from your hand, in perpetual motion, far into existing worlds, above and below, and symbols turn into signs, signs of death from life.

Which is more alive? The word ‘life’ on a page, with the ability to dream, or the presence of a walking individual on the street with no sense of meaning or values shared by a common belonging.

Blinking effigy.

Awake.

The common good will rest its head on a dreamer’s passage, and the otherwise, the curious cat, is gone.

The wolf is dead.

On a dreamer’s bed.

The dwellers leave a peaceful print and their feet retreat into whispers of dust.

Only the devils burn, and turn, they never sleep, slumping over a dreamer’s feet.

Asleep.

And awake, sitting up from beds, their souls revealed, as the daunting mystery of a slow but sure awakening of deep dark matter, wavering like a temple flag, a self- image in waiting to be provided. The calmness in the soul, is a shadow that hyper-ventilates in order to emit a persona that is acceptable, social, tired and dragged into a destination it has seen over and over many times in restful dissonance, and boredom.

Dreams, a board room for the hopeful.

A meeting for those who wish to tear down borders and pride, an order for the life of passports, a booklet in the water or an island in the sand.

Dreams, a nature, instilled by nature itself in the form of a question to humanity; even animals dream, animals are human, with different names.

What is the question that nature proposes out of the quality of dreams?

To question the border.

I know nothing else, besides the line, between a dream and reality. If you cannot define a dream, then you cannot define reality, and the pondering spirit is only left to question the line in the middle, the border.

To revise the current state of affairs and their orders.

To blind yourself from the question of politics is to say, “I want to wallow in mud, I am good this way”

As others starve and fade.

They could be you one day.

Aimless art.

Did you hear about the serial killer who made statues out of his nudities. Out of his women prey. And they became artifacts in galleries and museums, masses pondered the beauty of their feminine figures, not knowing they are dead-stills.

Until a jaw cracked open one day and made a sound when the wind howled through a window frame.

Death is eminent.

We dream because we need to.

We live because we have to.

We die because we should.

The poetry of a dream, without a punctuated sentence we are the swamps of greed.

Prompt. A dream ends, in our times, with the sound of an alarm against your bed, instead of sunny sensations on the stretch of your eye lids.

We are, what we have become, we are dreaming machines, out of boxes, redefining the image of a coffin.

All we have left is the binary choice.

Sun or moon? Man or woman? Young or old? Rich or poor? Dead or alive? Black or White?

And gray, as a vibrational tendency to extend the eternal into outer space.

And a new face, a new civilization will emerge out of the water.

With long ears, to make up for the loss of not hearing intently to words that should have been listened to.

And The rabbit hole continues going on and on forever in its dignified integrity of space travel, unravels a parachute cashoot, hoots like an owl with cross eyed beads and a snort for an eye.

Thank you.

The master waves a white glove.

Red curtains conceal the abysmal universe and stars made out of wool.

The end.