I awoke today and my head hurt worse than madness. I do not regularly remember my dreams and those I do flee at a glimpse of daylight. Today I awoke and the imagery repeated itself from the evening before at an accelerated pace.
A gothic factory of an office building used for recreation. The elevator is a chair lift. Hallways run the perimeter of the square layout on one of the upper floors and dormitory-style rooms dot the diamonds on the wallpaper. While the hollow center of the building is surrounded by the inner wall, one can feel the chasm where the elevators should be. Inside, a ragged hang-glider circles lazily toward the ground floor. There is no music, nor even ambient sound, nor odor, nor palpable sense; but the sensation of sensations is indisputable.
Tertiary characters from my university days flit in and out of the rooms and I find myself swept into their comings and goings. I am in a room, squatting on a low mattress, gesturing in animated silent conversation. My desensitized senses rush downward, faster but more graceful than a fall and I am at the bottom of the chasm, lightly in the lobby and through a rush of businesslike faces to the doorman outside.
He raises his arm and I am down the block and, it seems, a grand set of granite steps which stretch before him. The sidewalk shifts and I am indoors again, an institutional hallway regimented by paintings on the walls. I feel painted metal around me. A memory forms.
When I was young another young boy had brought a tiny birds egg in to show the class. Every child and the teacher were duly impressed, and the morning lesson was skipped to admire the egg. I cannot remember precisely how it is that I found myself in the classroom alone, by the coat room with the egg in my hand, but I squeezed it until it broke, the gelatinous yolk slippering through the cracks after the amniotic fluid. The smell of the egg would not wash off of my hands and I had difficulty eating eggs for many years. I was never caught and I never confessed.
A gothic factory of an office building used for recreation. The elevator is a chair lift. Hallways run the perimeter of the square layout on one of the upper floors and dormitory-style rooms dot the diamonds on the wallpaper. While the hollow center of the building is surrounded by the inner wall, one can feel the chasm where the elevators should be. Inside, a ragged hang-glider circles lazily toward the ground floor. There is no music, nor even ambient sound, nor odor, nor palpable sense; but the sensation of sensations is indisputable.
Tertiary characters from my university days flit in and out of the rooms and I find myself swept into their comings and goings. I am in a room, squatting on a low mattress, gesturing in animated silent conversation. My desensitized senses rush downward, faster but more graceful than a fall and I am at the bottom of the chasm, lightly in the lobby and through a rush of businesslike faces to the doorman outside.
He raises his arm and I am down the block and, it seems, a grand set of granite steps which stretch before him. The sidewalk shifts and I am indoors again, an institutional hallway regimented by paintings on the walls. I feel painted metal around me. A memory forms.
When I was young another young boy had brought a tiny birds egg in to show the class. Every child and the teacher were duly impressed, and the morning lesson was skipped to admire the egg. I cannot remember precisely how it is that I found myself in the classroom alone, by the coat room with the egg in my hand, but I squeezed it until it broke, the gelatinous yolk slippering through the cracks after the amniotic fluid. The smell of the egg would not wash off of my hands and I had difficulty eating eggs for many years. I was never caught and I never confessed.
dem_z:
Thank you for your kind words, and welcome to the group 