Dreams

In the evening, when the sun favors us with the magic light, clouds glowing red and rough tree bark shining, we prepare for the nightly journey into our deep self. It is an ancient ritual, whether warm tea and bed clothes or not; twilight and the rising moon; first star gleaming from the infinity.
With eyes closed we walk. Walk down a long flight of stairs. Stairs solid as stone and bare as metal bars; changing, changing into a soft flowing; by degrees and slowly, with each step; each step softer, down soft, less demanding, allowing. Stairs and stepper melting, changing, growing together into a warm, thick water. Flowing as deep rivers do, slow and easy and unhurried.
We flow into the deep ocean of possibilities. Overhead the wise light of the Night Queen, feeding us the silver drops that drive our dreams. Here we find a liberation, our small salvation; the freedom we yearn for.
We were taught it isn't real and taught to disregard those experiences. We were lied to about so many things. we were told to follow our dreams and that dreams are delusions. Taught that monsters don't exist and were given mortgages and cancers instead. Wars and Mayhem.Frenetic and frantic races of rats is real. So we were taught.
At night we dream. Whole lives lived in minutes. What it feels like to be a cat. To fly, wingless. Recollections of experiences never possible and premonitions. Guides come and to counsel and we play; actors in our own films, we, the directors and the extras.
We return rested, drifting upstairs into a dawning day, sunrise and birdsong. And we ask each other: What did you dream? Where did you go? Who went?