A Dream Within A Dream

This post is dedicated to "The Alan Parsons Project", a bloody good project if I ever came across one!

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For my own part, I have never had a thought which I could not set down in words with even more distinctness than that which I conceived it.

Tiny specs of silver flit about the air like little pixies. I felt alive. The gentle music floated over the air as if divine. This was the stuff that dreams were made of. I felt, perfect. In mind, in body and in soul. There was an ease to the flow of my limbs that had been unmatched for sometime now. I was old now and yet felt younger. I shivered and smiled.

There is however a class of fancies of exquisite delicacies which are not thoughts and to which as yet I have found it absolutely impossible to adapt to language.

Tranquility felt as if it was embedded in the sandy soft grains under my feet. It was a dark but glowing world. Shimmering stars hung around me suspended in thought and watching the world go by. This was a world as old as time itself. The gentle beating of my heart was the only thing that reminded me of my mortality. I felt buoyed and joyful. My mortality was irrelevant, my toes curled as I smiled and leapt into space.

These fancies arise in the soul, alas how rarely, only at epochs of most intense tranquility, when the bodily and mental health, are in perfection.

There was hardly any physical sensation present in this world. It felt like my body was suspended from its soul. And my soul was all that was alive here. A sea of nothing which welcomed solitude and transformed it into a dreamlike euphoric suspension. But the music, the music rung over and over in my mind. It fit so perfectly that it made me want to cry. And so I did, gently letting a teardrop glide in perfect silence on my cheek.

And at those mere points of time where the confines of the waking world blend with the world of dreams.

As I floated further and further away from the grainy surface under my feet, I turned to my left to see home, it was beautiful. Blue and radiant, it was the sort of place that would make the thought of a homecoming almost poetic. As my feet touched the ground after what felt like hours, I suddenly became aware of how lucky I was. A resident of a gem, who had had the chance to see it as an observer from another world, it felt like a dream, like something that I couldn’t possibly describe.

I walked over to the silver craft as it glimmered in the sun, and told the others I’d be coming home. I missed Earth. Who wouldn’t?

As the blast from the engines threw silver sparks of dust into the void. I took a picture on a camera that my son had given me.

And so I captured this fancy, where all that we see or is seen is but a dream within a dream.