Dream a Little BIG Dream

A good story must start with something from the heart that helps the individual define limits beyond their own understanding, otherwise it is just a fireworks display with nothing to wonder about, You already know you are the hero. The girl got her guy, the guy got his girl.. only after a massive battle where thousands of innocent bystanders paid the price for both the 'Good” guy and the 'Bad” guy. Sure it can have elements of action, how much does the story pull away from the familial acceptance we all need. How much of it binds us to the hero, for a relatable fantasy. In this scenario the collective is always righteous, by unseen rules. The MC universe strives to make a good Segway. The Joker story in the DC universe has a very exploratory back story. It gets down into the psyche of those that would perform such tasks as the joker did. But everyone's favorite literary figures, William Shakespeare, Homer, Mark Twain, among many others set very high standards. The high standards even within those named are great. Samuel Clemens (Twain) for example was not great at spelling, nor was he perfect in his grammar. While William Shakespeare has some of the most perfect sentence structure ever noted.

All my work is perfect of course (Ha Ha) have you even seen one eye not crossed?.. RIGHT!!

Dreams and matters of the heart along with a willing audience is what makes all stories great. I do however, think that modern stories must shift in order for the world to be a truly cohesive place. The Protagonist, does not always need to fight fire with fire, most of the conflicts come from the mother of invention. Conflict does not come initially from a will to harm, our lives are reflecting many of the things this type of art is showing.. Art as an expression should always be reflective of our lives, not reflected in our lives. When life imitates art, strange things happen.

The questions relating to identity, and how we define our identity are often the things hardest to see. When we see a new gadget, and like what we see it engages our curiosity. The new object changes our perception of what can be.. This is why those rare individuals we call visionaries are so important. They are those that dare to question what their elders taught in search of what the human mind, heart and soul are made of. Unfortunately, language can never duplicate, or supplicate the inner workings of the mind of a visionary. This is the heartbreak of verbal communication and the downfall of societies, not for the telling of the stories, but the impossibility of conveying that which another has never seen.

I dream quite often because my sleep is often interrupted by thoughts of greater things.. Many of my dreams, while not nightmarish, are still unsettling. Many of them lack a linguistic interpretation. The mind and heart work in conjunction to define the soul of the perceiver while their reality is created. That of course is not to say there is no common perception of reality, or I would never be able to type this article. Our individual worlds are only as narrow as we choose to accept. Our individual worlds are also as wide as the cells function, to the largest emptiness of space as we perceive it.

Below is one of my unrelatable dreams for a reference, I can not say what the meaning of it was. It was more like, a certain sense of watching another reality. A reality which colors were not as we recognize them, Even the previous sentence can not describe what my heart and mind perceived.

The Unrelatable Dream:

Complete darkness surrounds the empty cavern, Millenia across the void. I look at where I am standing Legless, nay limbless I am possibly annoyed. What I feel is extravagant and plain. I am aware and unaware of the pleasurable pain. There is no shell to confine me the box I was in is no longer confining me. Only darkness do I see, but still it blinds me. To close my eyes is to do nothing at all, as the effort to do so is the useless toil. There is no pain but what I chose as the cosmos unfolds. I see colors without a name could I choose one just for blame. I see yellow and red against the black, now speckled with stars like eyes. The yellow that stays in place and unswayed, its lines are so vague as to say it is unmade. Spots of red play and dance, a couple that met possibly by chance. Can you see that which is here. May be and not, as I shed a tear. Beauty and pain one of the same, joy and love are all that remains. Again and again...

I have my own stories to tell. The following is an excerpt from one of My current stumpers, the prospective title is 'Advancing on Oblivion'. This story is about many of the social, religious, and political issues/non-issues, and how they impact individual freedoms and spiritual growth. How social programming has made us slaves in our own minds, for progressiveness that destroys the things we fundamentally need. It is in fact a difficult story to tell. This story, as you may have guessed, starts with a dream. Please step into my world, it is safe, the only harm that will come to you, is that which you fear.

The Moon Dream:

Standing silently, the vast energy of the universe cradling me in a pulsating glow. The fractured moon passes as the hollow of its core shows structures of civilizations past. Slowly I help myself to the ground, realizing I am the same as all. I touch down on familiar ground. The environment unfolds around me as my heart fills my head with the images from days gone by. There is more… I also have the impression of images of the places I have never been, may be fantasy, some real.

The corn field populates as seasons fly by with the wisp of a butterfly wing or the arch of a fern. Escalating, changing, morphing as it unfolds..

I am alone, the smell of the corn is overwhelming, however I can still smell the woods beyond with its fragrances changing as the season changes in a surrealistic smear of everything contained within. The creatures change; one becoming another becoming all. The emotions and creativity of a being that cared so much; its creation was constructed to build its own creation, to then allow the same if unconditional love is present. Fragrances both pleasant and foul over and under whelming as if it had its own rhythm, and a beauty of its own. While seeming stable in its chaos. A darkness grows in the distance, small at first, just a maelstrom of countering vortex to pull at the edges of reality. I drift without sound, with an unquenchable need for noise, as the frequencies unheard overcome.

The corn was changing, as the clouds poured pure water it slowly turned to metal rain. As the rain came down the seasons still changing, morphing the way they feel. As this world shifted, the corn seemingly redefined its purpose. Roots changed to circuit plans, rooting in tangles with each other. The corn seeming natural, was not edible, not even food, but becoming tools of conquest and control. The hunger in My belly grew in this alterscape of the inevitable. I walked through rows and rows of electric corn trying desperately to find sustenance. Finally, ahead in the clearing I could see a small structure of four white posts with a curved roof, like the army barracks of old. Could it be a pic-nick area, may be? Is it a wood shelter, no! Continuing to move closer, I felt as if I was gliding or flying as I went. I felt transparent and ever changing. The structure took on more definition as I approached. I could see what seemed like a railing extending across three of its four sides, leaving one of the narrower sides open. it’s like a subway stairwell, or something a kin to it. As I walk toward the structure the seasons fade to an ominous darkness with undefinable hues. Walking closer toward the structure, I noticed, the electric corn starts to buzz and whine in a sort of a discordant harmony. What was once a pleasant experience in spite of the contradictions, became a horror of the senses. The harmony is now a chaos without reason. The satellite dishes that were once the tassels of the corn stalk align to the same unseen spot in the sky. The sound consumes my being as the corn, and soil slowly disintegrate and fall away. Moving closer to the pavilion everything else disappears, leaving just the subway stairwell structure.

My hunger grows as I make a blind handless grasp to where my belly would be, I approach the subway terminal. As I step up to the levitating platform with invisible intent. The undefined space that was once a field of electric corn looses its grasp on the me of this dream.

Restless interludes cause an interference, I can no longer focus on the platform, My identity starts to fade for another life. Already I am dis-remembering. where I started from. Was the corn talking to me? It seemed to be there were others or something greater around, directing me or showing me something.

I am a Dolphin, a slug, a subject for the queen in an army of bugs, I am a planet, a sun, and a galaxy at once. I am you, and you are, so we BE.

I hope You all enjoyed this excerpt, as well as the story above, I also hope it has enriched you in some way, to question what the core of your beliefs are, and not just agree with what is told or sold. Love the being you are, for I am you and you are me when you see a part of what you could be.

If you thoroughly enjoyed this story please help me continue the content that will potentially bring the world together by sharing this on any and all platforms you like. A tip will be very much appreciated, and feed this questing soul. Much love my friends, Live well.