Celephais
So far, I have done a pretty good job of not telling anybody about this blog. Despite whatever intentions I had when I started this thing, it serves now only as a way for me to waste time. Truth be told, I haven't even succeeded in that respect and have made few entries. However, today is the dawn of a new day in the blog that no one knows about and that no one reads. The astounding lack of readership has actually freed me to post some random crap that I have written since having this blog but have been too embarassed to post. The first hidden gem that I'd like to share with nobody is a strange brew of thoughts that escaped from me one morning right after I had a strange dream. The entry below that describes this dream makes very little sense, so I'm quite fond of it. Here it is in all it's glory, the story of a strange dream.
Earlier today in a semi-sleeping state of half thoughts and fragmented dreams I was brilliant. Not that real brilliance that Poe and Goethe could claim to have, but a more insidious genius. A rush of love and self-congratulation that only dreams, or rather the hope that is their cause can bring. In this dream I questioned the dream itself and it’s existence. I saw the dream in myself and saw its absurdity. Then, I thought an essay called “On the existence of dreams in others”. The conclusion – which one could easily infer from the title – was that they don’t exist. Only the self’s dream is true. The other is part of our dream and so cannot dream for itself. It was here that my subconscious Sartre weaved this well-worn cloth and called it clothing. In retrospection I always see myself as the thief that I am, and yet I lose little clarity.
I saw the perfect building. It was a landmark of the great land that Lovecraft called Celephais. I knew its greatness in my mind yet could not remember it even for a second. The more I grasped the further it grew. I could not focus on parts but could only observe it in its entirety. It was an organic thing with windows and terraces that I barely comprehended. Only for a few moments did I understand it. Only when I let myself go, when I surrendered to the dream and obeyed its irrational rules did it accept me. In that surrender I could keep but part of myself to record the perfection that I now struggle to recall. From my sketchy imaginings I can tell that this structure was by no means as awesome as I believed. The perfection existed only in my mind. An impression of how divinity would feel if it were real. And yet, it is the only perfection I have ever known. Maybe it is all I can hope for. Fooling myself into seeing a god and vainly recreating his works in waking life, knowing them to be my own. And in this realization I knew that the dreams of others were false because mine were false. The dreams of another would be even less than lies. They would be facsimiles of impressions that never really had form. At least my lies are my own, even in their plagiarism. Let us from now on only dream of ourselves. To dream of others is to steal their lies.
Earlier today in a semi-sleeping state of half thoughts and fragmented dreams I was brilliant. Not that real brilliance that Poe and Goethe could claim to have, but a more insidious genius. A rush of love and self-congratulation that only dreams, or rather the hope that is their cause can bring. In this dream I questioned the dream itself and it’s existence. I saw the dream in myself and saw its absurdity. Then, I thought an essay called “On the existence of dreams in others”. The conclusion – which one could easily infer from the title – was that they don’t exist. Only the self’s dream is true. The other is part of our dream and so cannot dream for itself. It was here that my subconscious Sartre weaved this well-worn cloth and called it clothing. In retrospection I always see myself as the thief that I am, and yet I lose little clarity.
I saw the perfect building. It was a landmark of the great land that Lovecraft called Celephais. I knew its greatness in my mind yet could not remember it even for a second. The more I grasped the further it grew. I could not focus on parts but could only observe it in its entirety. It was an organic thing with windows and terraces that I barely comprehended. Only for a few moments did I understand it. Only when I let myself go, when I surrendered to the dream and obeyed its irrational rules did it accept me. In that surrender I could keep but part of myself to record the perfection that I now struggle to recall. From my sketchy imaginings I can tell that this structure was by no means as awesome as I believed. The perfection existed only in my mind. An impression of how divinity would feel if it were real. And yet, it is the only perfection I have ever known. Maybe it is all I can hope for. Fooling myself into seeing a god and vainly recreating his works in waking life, knowing them to be my own. And in this realization I knew that the dreams of others were false because mine were false. The dreams of another would be even less than lies. They would be facsimiles of impressions that never really had form. At least my lies are my own, even in their plagiarism. Let us from now on only dream of ourselves. To dream of others is to steal their lies.
posted by Furtive Surf at 11:16 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home