Build a man a fire and he’ll be warm for the night. Light a man on fire and he’ll be warm for the rest of his life. Terry Pratchet
I have been dreaming and it is weird.
I see people—myself included—with a big hole in our beings and reaching out, kind of clumsy and yearning to be nurtured.
I dream that for the most part we remain alone and still wanting.
I dream about truly breathing, those deep, cleansing breaths, born of being home—the “places” where one is able to set down the energy Dracula and revitalize, instead of engaging in yet another battle, or avoiding it altogether as we are depleted.
I dream that the five homes are the meanings of our life, they are not just the facts of our life.
I see that embracing false positives (seeing something as true when it isn’t) might make us foolish, but it can increase our opportunities to find the five homes. I see that embracing false negatives (seeing something as not true, when it is true) will increase our chances of dying.
I dream that when falling in love or staying away, our first clarity is not enough. I dream that we must allow more than one clarity—such decisions, if decisions they are, are best made soberly and not when intoxicated by a high or a low point. Besides, I wonder what kind of clarity it is, that cannot withstand clarification?
I dream that heaven and hell are interchangeable deeds/doings. It is like a musical note that sounds beautiful played in harmony with other notes, but that same note creates dissonance when not in harmony.
I dream that we are poor members of the band and I hope for redemption. However, I see that for one to be redeemed and not others, is no redemption at all.
I dream that the barriers we create are rice paper-thin, though they appear to be fortresses. I dream that the bridges we create are pathways to forever, though they appear to be rice-paper thin.
And I awake, and face the “facts” of life once again. And I remember lyrics from The Puppet Song by The Incredible String Band and Stone Monkey: “All your so hard facts, painted thinly on the void, why were you not more pleasantly employed?”
I remember this poem I have already posted:
It is funny to sit and scrawl Word symbols across tree pulp, To be read by others On the screens of their own experiences.
Oh, how the vestiges of old journeys Leave a trail called remembrances, Yet are presently interpreted.
Reaching out like beggar’s hands, We try to touch, Though it often seems like wanting.
I am not dreaming now, I am writing. I am reaching out. Better a false positive, than a false negative. So if foolish I am, than I would rather live with that bit of warmth I have to build nightly, than to set myself grandly on fire and live warmly the rest of my life.