cygnoir.net

cygnoir.net

because i am not above posting dreams

I am in my new friend’s rooms, where he studies at Oxford. His friends are there, as are some headmasters or professors, angrily looking for artifacts they claim my new friend has stolen and hidden.

They plunder the room. They start taking things off the walls. My new friend is blissfully serene. He watches them.

Removing the oil painting of a sedate old man’s head to reveal a photo ripped from a magazine, harsh lighting falls across the tedious lines of a male form.

It’s taped up, designed to embarrass. We all have a good laugh, except the professors, who are merely further agitated. Rip it off the wall. Underneath is taped:

SOME DREAMS ARE NOT THE WAY TO ESCAPE

Rip it off the wall. Underneath is taped:

SOME DREAMS TELL YOU WHAT YOU WANT TO HEAR

Rip it off the wall. Underneath is taped:

SOME DREAMS TELL YOU WHAT IS TO COME

Rip it off the wall. Underneath is taped:

SOME DREAMS TELL YOU WHAT THEY DO NOT WANT YOU TO KNOW

Rip it off the wall. Underneath is taped an excerpt of fiction, cut out from a newspaper, a story about two boys who discovered how to hide things between realities. The cubbyholes they created were called “dreamways”. The professors do not bother to read this, of course. They rip it off to expose the next level of taped clues. My new friend hands the excerpt to me, though, because I should read it.

After reading, I look up at my new friend. He smiles at me. I hug him and say, “It’s good to be home.” He says, “Welcome back.”

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.

∞