I see this figure in my dreams. It’s body - entirely at the mercy of the wind - yet, strong. An imposing force beyond that of mountains with the flow of the ocean. I know nothing of his intentions, what he’s doing before me, or why I am before him. He looks down on me with eyes of contempt and wisdom, evil and understanding. An array of thoughts, expressions, emotions in his gaze from high above the clouds, comforting me in fear. Eons pass between us, the wind crossing our still bodies. Until he raises his hand.
Upon his palm opens his third eye, and it all becomes clear. Everything. Through the three keys a gate opens to his soul, and his figure becomes true. I see in him things only the mind can see, but fir just an instant.
I wish I could remember that clarity -- what I thought in that moment. But with the wave of his hand, he was gone, as was I, and any memory of him faded. I will soon wake from my sleep with a cloudy mind, unbeknownst to what he has brought, and then taken away so quickly. That is, until he shows himself again, and he may show me the way once more.
Faces In My Mind
They say you can’t dream of faces you’ve never seen. Something about a person’s facial structure is so complex and nuanced that our brains simply can’t make them up on the fly. I think it works the other way around, too. You build your dreams around the faces you’ve seen.
The faces I’ve seen- I’d like to forget. Expressions of terror, agony, and desperation. My dreams are populated with the innocent sons and the crying mothers I’ve been ordered to look down on between my iron sights. Sometimes it’s only one face -- haunting me in the shadows of my mind, looming around me until I’m sprung awake from the nightmare. Other times, there are many. Entire city streets, pavilions, buildings, all filled with faces that have those terrible expressions etched in. These ones, I’m not given the pleasure of waking from my fear. Instead I have to walk the streets and the hallways, through the people. There are so many, I almost can’t believe I’ve seen them all before. But if I stare too long, my memory is jogged, and I remember when I saw them, where I saw them, and the atrocity that brought that look onto their face. The only escape comes from my alarm clock- six a.m. sharp.
Retired life has turned me into an early riser. I sigh, looking into the mirror across from my bed. I wonder to myself if anybody has ever dreamed of that face. Or if I’ve ever been in one’s nightmare. I doubt it, as the only ones who’ve ever feared me are all dead.