I dreamt of it again, the place of nothing and everything.
It’s a place where the answers avail though they’re never told.
It’s sort of feels like nothing. You do not need to gauge the temperature on your skin, or in your body.
When I was there, I was not alone although I was the only one like me there. My presence did not matter nor offend.
When I woke up, I suddenly felt my pillow, my bed, my blanket. I suddenly noticed the smell of the warm sun on my carpet.
There, the space between me and the others was filled. My body did not have time to stop feeling to perceive the touching of something else as a distinct experience.
During my dream all that I could feel was the thickness of the air, the ground, them. They were huge and small and many sizes in between. The variation made their sizes seem irrelevant.
If only I could have closed my eyes.
I looked but could barely see. My eyes felt like a camera trying to focus on an object that is too close. An appendix, an issue to be dealt with. I cupped my hands over my eyes, leaving only a gap to create a lens, but nothing came into view.
It hurt me to use them.
My ears and nose,
my mouth.
It felt like they were there only to remind me that I was not meant for this place and I wanted so badly to rid myself of them.
If I had been dreaming lucidly, I would have done so. But to have lucidly dreamt means I would have been too attached to my humanness to experience it without prejudice.
I’m not sure experienced is the right word. Experienced is our word. It doesn’t feel adequate to explain what this was like. This was not an experience; it was a being. Or at least, this word comes closest to describing it.
I moved and got to where I needed. I didn’t feel alone in the decision to move. I’m not sure I could even call it a decision. The humanness of the word decision does not feel proper here, in this place.
I yearned to move, and the others beckoned me to them.
When I woke up from my dream, from this place, I suddenly remembered that I had dreamt of this place before. During my sleep, I could not remember. It was as though I had never actually left it. One does not remember that they are in their house while they are in it.
I got to them, or they pulled me to them, or we moved to each other. All of them are true. As we moved, universes of time elapsed, this I knew. Behind them they left something of themselves, only for the something to disappear.
We touched.
They were sticky, and wet. Just like everything else. They felt the same as the air, but more of it. As though the air had collected itself into a mass.
When we touch something wet, we know it’s wet. It’s like knowing what a word means without being able to describe it. What is that?
In this place, with them, I knew they were wet without considering it.
When we touched, they gave me the everything they knew. I thought I had already known, but it must have been the air – enough something of them for me to think I’d known, but not solid enough for it to be the full truth.
I cannot think now what it was that I knew in my dream. When I woke up, I knew nothing of the truths I’d known while I was asleep.
As we touched somethings of them left, to touch other things. And I thought of my ineptitude to do the same, to remove parts of myself and send them off spreading the knowledge of my truths, not worrying if they’d return.
I wanted them to absorb me, to make me a part of them, a something of them. For my body to rid itself of all the bits that made it redundant in this place. For myself to become a part of the air that would then become them, and then the air, and then them again. Forever in all the directions that forever can go.
What is a direction if you can go in all of them at once?
When I woke up, I wanted to go back to sleep.
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