A Vision from a Dream

The land I have lived in is full of travesty, denial – pain and melancholy. A land permeated with haze and fog, boundless and limitless in its coating daze. The grasses were thin and dopey; much like cretins trapped in the concrete jungle. There is a bridge connecting the dead and the living; the insane and the sober; the realistic and the dreamers; the primal and the domesticated. Anamnesis – laden with ancient, languidness – lathered with the intellectual innards of the mind. This recollection perplexes me; I cannot recall if it is from this life, the next, or one a century ago. I was standing on a stupendous bridge, with the air flooded with sharp, polar gusts. I leaned over the railing, staring far down at the choppiness of the lifeblood. A feeling of dread and fear overcame me like the wind when it overcomes the warmth; like the mist that reigns victor over the pale, pallid sun; like the squalls which terrorize homeward bound ships. In the effluvium amongst the approaching fog bank, the spirit of the water hung so low it formulated ground clouds. I suddenly saw the future as it was destined to unfold; though, it was slightly unclear like peering into an old mirror. With the edges of the ethereal vision fuzzy and rough. Inside the dreamy, mental movie it showed me aged and grey – hunched over a wooden cane with an equally decrepit lover by my side. The picture fades black, then purifying white, then I see the limp body of a young man. With black shoes, black hair, disheveled attire, and cold, piercing eyes laying upon the stone-like ground. The news crew sets up cameras and prepares to broadcast the image to the world. The autopsy is ruled an accidental overdose. “Poor, poor child” the coroner said as his silent footsteps drifted away. The last scene is the sobbing mother crouched over her deceased boy – her little angel. She is immersed in remembrance of his love of life, and the joy present in his eyes. She cries thinking of the irreplaceable moments and of the kinder, simpler times when he would play with cowboy figurines and explore the world with curiosity. The mother’s eyes well up with droplets of tears as she weeps excruciatingly until the drops form a puddle. The ripples initiated by each falling tear; erratic and disturbed, the air castle waves and flows up and down mimicking the lapping of the pools of misery. And like that it all vanished – I heard a crisp snap the mist disappeared, the frigid air dissipated, and the edge of the bridge came into view. The shore across it was rocky and consisted of caves and cliffs and outcroppings. It looked familiar. The ledge mirrored the tumble I nearly took when I was sixteen – the suicide of a worldly child. I begin to stroll to the end Earth’s land. Behind me, the pavement is swallowed by the sea. In my head, I am far from sure – there is no degree of certainty that I will make it through. In the distance, hardly discernible, there is a light flashing from the foothills. The sun had long since sank behind the mountains. As I run, the heart pounds like the footsteps of giants, and I plummet down, down, and further down. At the last second only by mere grace, I caught onto a metal bar poking out from the structure. I cling on for some time, hoping that I had enough strength to pull myself out of the hell I created. I hang lifeless – the arms quiver and shake as the strength flees and exhaustion takes hold. Though, I held fast and didn’t fall.
The clouds rush by high above, the soul transmits my spirit to the sun, and the steel rusts beneath the hands of a perfect stranger – myself.

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