October 20, 2016

Soliloquy of a Dreamer

I dream in languages I don’t recognize.
Sounds clashing against each other, vowels
sound like consonants and a tender compliment,
like the vilest insult
I feel blood on my earlobes, my eardrums
have exploded, my brain has exploded, the
world I know has exploded, but it is just
a dream and because it is a dream, blood
suddenly turns into wine, explosions into
fluttering flower petals and the sky is green,
and I am confused. I do not understand.
The way I don’t understand avant-garde
films, the way I don’t understand the
language of desire and despair unless
they are translated into bursts of tears and
deep kisses that suck my soul dry to the
point of desolation—wholly deprived,
here, in this desert of existence.
Sleep absolves the tragedy of speech
turns misunderstandings into one, long,
surreal play acted on a floating stage
where a faceless crowd applauds and never
stops applauding, never stops speaking in
strange languages that make me want to
stuff rocks into my ears.
I do not understand, not now, never.
Forever is a long time to not understand
something as useless as a dream
but forever is possible in dreams and
it happens every night, even if we stupidly
say that we do not dream, that we do not
remember. Admitting that we do not
understand our minds is petrifying, but
admitting it can’t seem to abolish the fear
either for I am trembling right now
as I always tremble in my dreams
where languages are always being invented
languages that lead to dead ends
that lead to nothing but the place where
the thing is not, where no thing will
ever be, the thing that might
tell me something, show me something that
this shithole of a world, with its vulgar realness,  
in which I breathe and eat and earn and
spend and love and loathe and lie and
confess, and write and write and write
cannot. Will not. What, I should ask, have we
been saying all along?