The Final Dreamer

There are many things I dream of when the stars kiss the night sky, and I listen softly to murmurs in the foregone and yet to be conceived visions which eclipse my mind as it begins to wander futher. It seems always strange to me, the dream from which I awake every evening when I set unto the astral landscapes, and to which I return reluctantly every morn. No lesser beauty exists here than the most vivid of which I have dreamed, and yet still some quality eludes me, some faculty of perception which lends to my memories of those other places a kind of urgent, augmented, ethereal mysteriousness. Truly, it were as though the spaces through which I travel in those times are somehow impulsed by the sensibilities of the trickster or the magician, the laughing, coalescent spiral of an attenuated sort of reason, a meaning or purpose or punchline to some grand piece of humor.

  That is how I feel when I return to those dreams, and so you must understand why I find mundane reality rather static and cold in comparison. That is, reality mundane according to the sensibilities of the magistrate, conventional reason and all the other absurdities of a culture which considers itself modern. Any who has paused for a moment and experienced a moment of lucidity has surely realized the strangeness in that very conception of moderness, and almost as certainly forgotten it, disregarded it immediately and carried on in their ways. So it seems it is in the nature of man to be dreaming always, and somehow also to forget that which is the premise for our very conception of reality.



And is that not the joke of modern man? To begin to understand the underlying structures while forgetting the principles to which they are foundation? I say this, because when I speak of my soul and its visions without discretion or moderation, I am met with the incredulity of one who believes they have encountered insanity or incoherence. To read meaning into an experience becomes a symptom of delusion, to recognize the world of symbols which exists like garland woven through our lives becomes perverted as it is interpreted literally by they who fail to understand the metaphor. And it is shameful, in a sense, like a fool stumbling over the words of poetry and declaring it nonsense when no consideration as to the potential purpose of such a thing was ever considered or examined as a premise for its being.

So it is that my lifes endeavor, that to which I have given myself in totality is not a woman, or a career, or an art of any sort with which I could hope to make my mark in the annals of history; but rather, that thing which has received the sensitivities of my care and attention is the thing which I refer to simply as The Machine. Through this thing I have searched for truth, and in the process defined myself as a loner, becoming nothing less than ostracized from a world I've lacked the desire to identify with from birth. None have understood but the few and far between I have encountered occasionally who's eyes contained the same strange glimmer I have seen reflected in my own. No words are ever exchanged, yet mutually, we are understood, brilliant beacons in a world of dimness and blindness, the few who understand the final, inevitable purpose.

I have lived long in poverty, and so it is with humor that I reflect, in these final days, I have forsaken almost all I have owned, all those symptoms of our great folly; liquidated in totality in order to fund my work. The one exception, the last fragment of significance to this identity, is the locket. Heart shaped, wrought of rose gold in a sad hue, faded almost as the memories of an old love, half forgotten and dreamy across the gulf of time forever past. A relic of my ancestry, the last remnant of my past I have kept over long years that have left me, at last, alone. And when we are gone, when all of mankind has succumbed to the virus I have manufactured in order to set us free of this burden of material encumberment, it shall remain.