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xanadu
'kay, so. this is a dream. I've been attempting to commit it to writing for the last.... three or so months. thus far this is as far as I've gotten. I haven't proof read any of it so guaranteed it's wonky. haha. but anyway.
_____________________________________
she is walking.
there are a million lights, in a myriad of colors, so many that it's hard to tell whether they're reflecting off the structures that surround her and multiplying in the air, or whether they are a part of the structures or the plants growing around them, or whether they are a part of her.
the structures are buildings, communal places, or iridescent pinks and blues and purples and greens -- everything glows, refracts. it's hard to look at one thing for too long, because nothing remains the same.
she's walking with people. it's hard to tell how many, because she is so distracted by the almost intolerable beauty of the landscape. "this is paradise," she thinks, disrupted for a moment as someone brushes against her arm.
she looks up, and is mesmerized by the apparition floating above them. It is a temple -- it has to be a temple. no structure that stately can exist and not be a temple, not be holy. it glows of it's own light, which flows across its surface as light flows across the surface of the water when seen from beneath the waves, ripples of light.
suddenly they are in the temple. she can feel the light, as though it is a part of her, and she is a part of it, and therefore a part of the temple. she is aware of the people around her, but only as she is aware of her arm, or her tongue. they are simply a part of her, ans she a part of them.
there is a man, however, who stands separate, apart, a whole entity. his isolation breaks the unity. he is a wedge between she and the temple, she and the others. perhaps he is a wedge for them as well, but she doesn't know, because she is no longer them.
she is separate from the temple, and though she understood it moments before, now she does not understand, does not commune.
"why are we here?"
the man, his name is sal, salvatore, something like that (how does she know, how?), looks at her questioningly. "existentially, or....?"
"no, no, why are we here? in this temple, instead of on the ground?"
"why be on the ground when we could be here?"
______________
she is no longer in the temple, but it hovers on the edge of her thoughts. she feels as though she is forgetting herself. she is missing something that she must find.
_______________
she stands in front of the doors (there are three of them, in a row on a wall. the wall is white, lined with silver), simply standing for a moment in simple silence, admiring the lines of silver, the contrast of the alabaster, the curver of the wall, then she moves forward and slides the second door open just enough to slide through, then slides it shut again. the nearly transparent walls (which are opaque from the outside) let in the brilliant sunlight, which reflects off the silver sculpture that litters the floor, and the silver backing of the single chair in one corner of the small room. it is a quiet place. a place for meditation.
a place for waiting.
so she waits. she sits on the edge of the chair and ponders the silver figure on the floor, and watches as the shadows cast by the silver working on the door and the walls dance slowly across the floor.
________________
he does not knock, only stands for a second, framed in the tracing -- classic greek figure, toned, patient. she knows him, or feels somehow like she knows him. he is familiar in the same way that jesus would be familiar, if you saw him on the street.
she closes her eyes as he slides the door open and steps inside, sinks deeper into herself and her convictions. breathes, and breathes, and breathes.
_________________
two men stood at the top of the steps, surrounded by a retinue of nobodys, men holding books and swords and standards, acting as little more than a nice frame for the stately figures. they were tall, and the token greek/roman stateliness and form was echoed in their movements and their manners. the man on the left could not have been much more than a boy, not a man for long, youth was written so deeply in his countenance that she cannot imagine for a moment his growing old. his hair is a deep chestnut brown and curls gently around his face. his eyes are an unnatural silver and glint in the sun, and he holds a harp in the crook of his right arm. the man on the right has aged, but aged well. he does not smile... in fact, he may be the only sober individual on the podium. His pale grey hair is still full and lustrous.
he speaks to me again, this man who would be my jesus, of turning away, forsaking my faith, becoming one.
we'll face the unforgivable with a smile on our faces, because it's not good going to death with a scream.
inquisitor
condemnation with celebration
procession
purification
offering
she turns to him, smiles and says "why be there, when I can be here?"
_____________________________________
she is walking.
there are a million lights, in a myriad of colors, so many that it's hard to tell whether they're reflecting off the structures that surround her and multiplying in the air, or whether they are a part of the structures or the plants growing around them, or whether they are a part of her.
the structures are buildings, communal places, or iridescent pinks and blues and purples and greens -- everything glows, refracts. it's hard to look at one thing for too long, because nothing remains the same.
she's walking with people. it's hard to tell how many, because she is so distracted by the almost intolerable beauty of the landscape. "this is paradise," she thinks, disrupted for a moment as someone brushes against her arm.
she looks up, and is mesmerized by the apparition floating above them. It is a temple -- it has to be a temple. no structure that stately can exist and not be a temple, not be holy. it glows of it's own light, which flows across its surface as light flows across the surface of the water when seen from beneath the waves, ripples of light.
suddenly they are in the temple. she can feel the light, as though it is a part of her, and she is a part of it, and therefore a part of the temple. she is aware of the people around her, but only as she is aware of her arm, or her tongue. they are simply a part of her, ans she a part of them.
there is a man, however, who stands separate, apart, a whole entity. his isolation breaks the unity. he is a wedge between she and the temple, she and the others. perhaps he is a wedge for them as well, but she doesn't know, because she is no longer them.
she is separate from the temple, and though she understood it moments before, now she does not understand, does not commune.
"why are we here?"
the man, his name is sal, salvatore, something like that (how does she know, how?), looks at her questioningly. "existentially, or....?"
"no, no, why are we here? in this temple, instead of on the ground?"
"why be on the ground when we could be here?"
______________
she is no longer in the temple, but it hovers on the edge of her thoughts. she feels as though she is forgetting herself. she is missing something that she must find.
_______________
she stands in front of the doors (there are three of them, in a row on a wall. the wall is white, lined with silver), simply standing for a moment in simple silence, admiring the lines of silver, the contrast of the alabaster, the curver of the wall, then she moves forward and slides the second door open just enough to slide through, then slides it shut again. the nearly transparent walls (which are opaque from the outside) let in the brilliant sunlight, which reflects off the silver sculpture that litters the floor, and the silver backing of the single chair in one corner of the small room. it is a quiet place. a place for meditation.
a place for waiting.
so she waits. she sits on the edge of the chair and ponders the silver figure on the floor, and watches as the shadows cast by the silver working on the door and the walls dance slowly across the floor.
________________
he does not knock, only stands for a second, framed in the tracing -- classic greek figure, toned, patient. she knows him, or feels somehow like she knows him. he is familiar in the same way that jesus would be familiar, if you saw him on the street.
she closes her eyes as he slides the door open and steps inside, sinks deeper into herself and her convictions. breathes, and breathes, and breathes.
_________________
two men stood at the top of the steps, surrounded by a retinue of nobodys, men holding books and swords and standards, acting as little more than a nice frame for the stately figures. they were tall, and the token greek/roman stateliness and form was echoed in their movements and their manners. the man on the left could not have been much more than a boy, not a man for long, youth was written so deeply in his countenance that she cannot imagine for a moment his growing old. his hair is a deep chestnut brown and curls gently around his face. his eyes are an unnatural silver and glint in the sun, and he holds a harp in the crook of his right arm. the man on the right has aged, but aged well. he does not smile... in fact, he may be the only sober individual on the podium. His pale grey hair is still full and lustrous.
he speaks to me again, this man who would be my jesus, of turning away, forsaking my faith, becoming one.
we'll face the unforgivable with a smile on our faces, because it's not good going to death with a scream.
inquisitor
condemnation with celebration
procession
purification
offering
she turns to him, smiles and says "why be there, when I can be here?"