T he Dream Makers And how can my dream be standing pure while I am not steadfast? I thought rebuilding should come easy,for I am made of the same substance as faith is, but do I not have to find within myself in the first place?Is not all of humanity enlightened somehow,to be able to live their lives without knowing any secret or holding any key? Do not speak of world hunger while your food rots away in your house, do not hope for universal lasting peace when every day you live is an inner strife. You want to feel one with the oneness but are not one inside? Then how do you seek if not sure of finding and un-scared of never finding? How do I see if all i think about are my own walls i build every morning? A small part of me still knows to taste beauty, a tiny crystal yet holds true vision. Hurt, despair, what part is there inside that doesn't let me give up? How can I finally admit that, were it on my own, i would have blackened my heart and hands so many times until now? Where is the wind taking the view that slips inside on moonless nights,when i still try and search for lost suns in the city's fog? The last cat will die someday and we shall all be free, someone said. When I die, you who are close to me will remember my face and essence, your friends and kids will remember yours, then the sun will swallow all the linked chains that laughed and saw and tried over the years and it will allbe to dust here, but elsewhere, a cat would have escaped on some high- hoped spaceship and would remember what she had for a family. And when that cat will meet time's end on a fist of rock in the stillness so black, somewhere, the footprint will remain and a different sun will look upon it, for, why not, in this story stars also dream. When that star fades there will be another and yet another touched by that light. What is the last cat? Should I call it the last stand of the dust, the last fall of all dreams? o rebuild, to rebuild - I wishpered to myself, to rebuild body and soul so I could bare my own dreams, I need a lightning core, constant as the alphabet, shining as compassion does, unwielding to fleeting desires and moods, concious of its burning, I needmy song to withstand the wild wild sea as my dream moves through the waves, smiling from horizon to horizon, though those far lines of earth-sky be empty and the road with no one in sight. Even rocks dream, though I might not believe it myself, I say it, I repeat it, though this is not the way to belief. Why do I need to believe so much in anything, why indeed? Are dreams not beautifull because they eventually end, oh, someone said that too I guess. Why does death blind me of the life given, why can't I see freedom in the same teapot with the end of all beings? I always wished the last cat was immortal, as I implacably and foolishly wish that for myself, and could not see that the last thing which stepped in the way was death. For without the unknown, what are we, what is there left? Though I could only fight on and didn't build my dream back, within changing shadowsand too little light, still, do not rule me out with the passing of winter, I will be here to fight in my own way, should the last cat remember me, next spring comming. For you, the people sharing the Last Cat, make me not think of my self sometimes. And every tree is a lifetime, each leaf a memory. It started with a cold feeling making its bird nest in my chest, startling me with its strangeness. I came to hate the world for I couldn’t understand it anymore, I thought it abandoned for I found no one watching over it in my search.[…] They are still there, coming and going, you can find them if you look, only if you look harder, only if you look past what you are thought, what you have read, look to what you barely listen to, find the silenced moments and the dew, forever new, of your fever’s search. With all conclusions left behind, neither yesterday or tomorrow, I realized that a king’s fool was a far better magician than I, that I lack determination and strive for too much seriousness, but I couldn’t give up, the worse of the lot as I was, for I have caught the magic singing on so many outstretched palms, wisping around stories, building waves over the souls of people I never knew. I never turned my head, always sought them when I passed. I found out in one of the citadels that I am not insane, that so much machinery has driven the sun and moon out of so many of my people’s souls. I could finally call them my people, even though it remained as hard as before to call out. Sometimes I got smiles, though less of young people, perhaps they are feeling safer, perhaps I have become more secluded than most of my generation. I knew, nevertheless, that the lifestyle they could embrace did not fit me. Still, I kept going and the more I went I got swept off my feet more often. So many more were out there, I just couldn’t lock myself up in a mountain. Both sides waited there – and I knew I will eventually find the dreamers.There are many ways to dream, you, reading this, have your own. Still, we recognize ourselves. Some of us have seen the lies and signs overcrowding all means of information from the fabled subway wall to the updating newspaper of the future. We know that however you wrap it, an atomic bomb won’t serve for defense, we hope for the critical mass of conscious beings that will reduce the insanity of the planet, who will never sell the soul of anyone for a grain of gold. We are called dreamers but I say we are only looking at the possibilities of today and believing in them while so many before us maintain with conviction that they are the impossible concerns of future generations, or worse, assume that war among us is in our nature. Wise men know that politics is overrated and something else makes the world go round. […] I find that so many shelters are being built, so many humming contraptions that hold armies and bombs in their bellies, it would be better if we considered ourselves as a race the nervous system of this planet ( even though we are not ) and treat it accordingly. The sun and the mountains don’t make distinctions between our deaths and those of the other species that are here. You know the numbers. But how many know the feeling? […] My wishes travel, though I lay in bed, my good wishes count in this world, though my death will not. Even though I am erased, my wishes still go on and even though this is one of them, I will part with you gladly when the moment comes. My wishes have no power in themselves but they can travel and leave a trace behind and if this trail burns brightly enough others may come that way, and, mix in luck's aid and fate’s smile, people will build bridges where an empty feeling stood once. The power of thought is known to move destiny and I know you will ask for no proof. […] I fancy my mind with tearing down the walls between us and I didn’t even find some to make a home out of.A wanderer is the son of man, still I can’t place my head over my own heart and sleep and so fall in the caving space behind, with all tails of light vanishing in the dark. If the road is my home, if the earth is my home, if my soul wanders between Venus and Mars how vast should my heart be? There are strangers that filled it quicker than my thoughts could ignite, they were homeless too, lonely sons of men, my home was theirs, for an instant theirs was mine. So rich are the people of this world. They have each other and they haven’t fully realized that yet. When that happens I won’t be part of this world, still, I wish I was given the chance to see it. Their eyes will outshine the stars and supernovae, for they will have discovered they are rich beyond belief and in this see the reason for the power that was never theirs to command. […] It should be an irony to spend life thinking about death and to be obviously unprepared at the last moment. I have been thrown from one side to another by loneliness, forced to sink down with the ship by all the people I love. I had to admit that my road will be ever lonely, that I know nothing for sure and still hope that I will find the ones to join me for a part of the adventure. I am far from impeccable yet I invite you on this great trip. Sometimes, I believe death can’t come for me, because this is for what I was born. […] Some of the people I see go by themselves, some chose to depart in pairs. Most of them never leave the safety and familiarity of the port. I left the caravan or the caravan left me here, I still don’t know that, and I’ve been staring out, awed and attracted by the ocean, gathering my courage, looking for the right ship. I looked but couldn’t find anyone to share a voyage with, no friends, family, elven princess or shooting star. So far, I remain on the shore of humanity and I see each drop of water as one destiny rolling after another, and wait and search for a companion. I won’tbe able to stay much after the sunset, however, and if high tide, will leave alone. Between my lashes I look out and see the few ships that sail beyond my sight. I must find someone to go with me over the lingering horizon. Help us stand before the sun. Free. So does the falling star reflected in your eyes, Before its wake in the sea. Praise the fiery fox, the pure sun. The heart of a poem is not a crystal core, not even were it flawless. The heart of the poet was full of fireflies; they found shelter when he passed the swamp and forest, don’t think they didn’t give their last flicker freely at each fall of the letters. The space between the words was covered by the sighs of the small creatures; a full stop was a sign of compassion. Read on, unravel their light strings, quiet down his heart by taking out their light, steal his sight, bead by bead, his hearing and his speech, confound him in unfeeling, pick out the memories he’s left with one by one. His heart was a light year away. A bitter battle is to pass over one’s own grief, to softly place your hand in the place you expected one to be offered. Be gentle when you can, hold your tears for a future moment, make them your joy for crying out alone. Tear the wall down and use its bricks to lay wide bridges, go forth and embrace who ever needs it, whoever you have a hold on. The space between your fingers resembles music, use them to shake hands, swing them to hum in your walk, put the moon in the depths of your weaver's loom when you encircle it. Make your fingers dance and whisper and many roads will spring in search of needed help, you will have forgotten the bitter grief which started you on this. How I wish I did it more. So much more.All the roads unfinished, all the words unspoken, for all the other choices than never went down the stream, for the multitude of gods who never came to be, all the miles walked in search of secret promises, all the lies told in place of all goodbyes, for most of times that came out better in the end, for all the times I'd said I found you, all those have escaped my gaze and hearing, evaded my thought and became free, for not even flight hindered them out there. I wait for you now, have counted the stars since I was a child, and hang my white ladder by the moon every clear night, hoping you’ll pass by. The yard was golden and the dust only makes this memory keep more of its old taste. There are fewer and fewer squirrels in the park, I guess I’ll have to move to another town soon, I don’t want to lose my first memories in some battered down park that doesn’t resemble my visions as a child. I get the feeling the squirrels are playing with me and with the world, I can taste the pines from the park and I remember people understood little from what I asked them when I was a child. It never rains in here, I’ll just bend over the golden curtain and tuck a thread in my pocket, don’t worry about my first day among other kids, I can still see it, taste the fine thick dust and the hard shadow strolling down the stony yard. The pulse Within Sometimes I have the necessary energy and intention to change my eyes and see old people bearing their own childhood’s eyes. Then the features of the face follow this transformation and I have the feeling that so little time has actually passed for them, no matter the multitude of experiences and surprises. Wouldn’t it be a well deserved wonder to be born old and die young?[...] No child avoided my look, when I was hungry for human eyes, but more than that, most have the wit and curiosity to seek it. Those eternal wanderers would never wage war. Perhaps they are more than beyond good and evil; they represent more than a clear slate to be written upon by perception and happenstance. You could never understand a child if you never lived like that after you abandoned the free, small things – the true gifts of the world, even if you had your own[...] Reach for the beauty and base desire that resides in you. Surprise yourself with your questions, never quench as a flame and never abandon the search, even if all around you did. Never forsake the quest, even if you are laughed at, or nothing of it is familiar to the people you live with. Though the search may be bitter, and the beating and the reward seem to switch places often enough, hang on to your belief. If desperate, I could only give advice I never followed – let go… and take hold[...]Don’t be in a hurry and wish this sad empty moment away. It will pass as surely as you would want your joyous times to last so much longer; still I wouldn’t go as far as collecting my precious moments for future use or old age. I wish I didn’t,anyway. If you could ring that clear voice of one mind, scatter the clouds of endless light play between doubt and belief, you might find that you are not an odd assembly of memories, a twisted knot of perception who finds his desired ease in dreams[...] Few people notice him. His life was just a bramble of roads upon which he tried to exert control. If life dealt him unexpected cards he cheated in his mind, it was easy enough. The desired way, fixed and sufficient, the only satisfying goal, that’s all that he wanted, that’s the only thing that fit, the only one that could have been destined. And woe, he was sound in his own way, wanting to forge his destiny out of reach of the impending, ever watchful, never caring stars[...] No answer came from the stars yet. The end became boring by being unavoidable, like the strike of luck you know to have just ended. Reality became something tangible, for it was inflexible, the fixed pole made the repetition of his own thoughts and ways faster. There were no skies left for his wishes. No lifetime was long enough, and mystery was no longer needed. He was so thirsty[...] I blow the dust from the abysses and crevasses I inhabit, hollow out the mist from above the vast openings. I tidy up my small room, this hour I have several constellations invited, we shall laugh at those mystery chasers and theory breakers and reforgerers of laws. We plan to go further so you can not ask what we are after. You won’t find the need to argue or balance the fruit in your mind. Your eyes will smile briefly, but it will be enough to light the room and chase away my stars. So uplit and slightly hollow became the room, I guess a light melancholy could ball me over, so I’d better invite you in, my unknown friend[...] Autumn is here, I’m not reluctant to speak, even though I haven’t actually met someone in a long while. My eyes are still good, taking in all the colors, watching as they wane from one hue to another. I can’t say I am content, but it still fills me up with a tingle to watch the shadows strike the earth at sunrise and sunset. Sometimes I sing and hum, not only for my own ears but for all the life around me. Long ago I realized I couldn’t keepNext >
