Bottle Rockets & Sleeping Pills – The Muse’s Dream

 

 

Sometimes I listen to music just to send me to a place that I can write. Soaring over Machu Picchu on the wings of a raven, standing on the beach arms wide as a hurricane blows in, feeling nature. The mist of my mind parts as the world spirals away, the steady glow of a single candle in the distance, burning in the window of a temple in some high mountain pass in Tibet. Perhaps the monk who sits and stares so serenely at the view the window bestows can see me as well, a blurry youth from across the world. Perhaps…

 

The smoke of my cigarette curls up from the ashy tip, blue gray smoke that weaves in, around, and back through itself in a slowly fading dance. Smoking is how I pray. My thoughts go up with the smoke to ride the winds to whatever deity that will hear them. I do need to quit smoking, no doubt about that, but I fear my willpower is rather low on that point. Regardless, the smoke itself is a beautiful thing, even if I give a few minutes of my life with each nail. Maybe somewhere a Shaman flies from their body to float quiet and unseen above me, looking on as I write. The ‘Ifs’ in life are many and wondrous, such things as dreams are made of.

 

The words waver and fade away to black, the candle in the distance flickers and is snuffed from a chill gust of wind from the mountains. The monk blinks slowly and leans forward, passing a hand through the thick smoke of the incense. A glimpse of a face through the haze of the smoke and the candle relights itself. With a small smile on his face, the monk bows and returns to his meditations. Thousands of miles away, a young writer smiles and returns the greeting, dreams of snow capped vistas filling his minds eye.

 

The Shaman looks on, studying the connection that the two strangers had made. Perhaps life continued to grow harder for Earth’s children, but there was still hope. Still enough time as well, though the Shaman doubted if Earth’s children knew it themselves. With a small shrug, the Shaman blinked a few times, and arose, leaving the hut and stepping out into the rain. With arms spread wide, the Shaman calls to the spirits and thanks them for the rain and the swelling rivers that will follow before returning back to the hut and going to sleep as the water beats at the thatched roof.

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~ by binarycheshire on March 28, 2008.

One Response to “Bottle Rockets & Sleeping Pills – The Muse’s Dream”

  1. You know… this is a lot more beautiful read, then it could ever be aloud.

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