The Waking Dream
I felt magic that day, in the waking dream, when once I felt my mind break open into a thousand pieces.
How could it have been otherwise, for as I sat, I dreamed of the making of the world. It happened with a care so painstaking it balanced on infinite points, all a knife’s edge, all precarious—where had I been the artist, I would have wept with the aching slowness of it all. Of what matter, I dreamed of nothing but light entwined with darkness. The one about the other, part of the languid pace. Until, all at once, the light burst. It shattered the darkness, and with it came a thousand pieces of a thousand thoughts, and my mind was filled until it could hold no more.
What purpose in such a dream, I wondered, my mind raw and aching as I woke from my wide-eyed slumber. Perhaps nothing more than this: there is blessing in the slow, and the light will always shatter the dark.