Déjà Rêvé
It was time for a much delayed incursion into the land of dreams.
The battlefields of incongruity were the same as they've always been.
Traces of future comings fought impossible desires, to become trapped in the nets of memory.
To be a fly in the wall in these fields was always an exhilaration.
An extra on a set where the director and protagonist commands and rewrites at each turn of the page. A flower in a field below the flight of an eagle. The forgotten dead in the experiments of a mad scientist or the incognito helper for the torturer of the enemy's army.
All these were the desires and fears of the dreamer.. Seldom were the blinks of premonition. Even seldomer were the perceptions of such prints on the mind.
But sometimes, one would pick at random a light in a dark corner, a face at a distance, the color of the books in a shelf. And they would write it in the back of their mind. For later remembrance.
And they would say: "I've seen this before..."
I really can't stand dreams.
Anonymous
