There are no happy endings.
I dreamed of a journey, but now that dream is done.
I dreamed of mountains of grey rock and green trees, of lakes made of glass and seas made of foam. I dreamed i was aboard a ship with wheels, as a black sea raced by beneath me. I dreamed of tiny, unheard-of paradises on the edges of oceans, where the sun sets behind gods made of stone and the people remember the names of their great-great-grandparents. I dreamed of rolling green hills and soil the colour of rust. I dreamed of one long, twisting road and an endless chain of unfamiliar beds and stages.
And i dreamed of being someone else, a different person with dreams of his own, for an hour or so every day. That hour was always the same, and always a little different.
It was a good dream. But now that dream is done. I've awakened to find myself in a tower, in a half-familiar city, both far from home and close to home. "Home," as a concept, is more complicated than you'd think.
My companions have all departed, each gone their own way, to their own idea of home. Tomorrow i'll be gone, too.
There are no happy endings, because nothing ever ends. The journey's not over, just the job. I don't know what comes next, but then, i never do. I just know, more and more, that all i want to do is tell stories for the rest of my life. For a few weeks, i got to do that. That's why it was a good dream.
If i ever have another one like it, i'll try to remember to tell you about it.
Til then, so long.
I dreamed of mountains of grey rock and green trees, of lakes made of glass and seas made of foam. I dreamed i was aboard a ship with wheels, as a black sea raced by beneath me. I dreamed of tiny, unheard-of paradises on the edges of oceans, where the sun sets behind gods made of stone and the people remember the names of their great-great-grandparents. I dreamed of rolling green hills and soil the colour of rust. I dreamed of one long, twisting road and an endless chain of unfamiliar beds and stages.
And i dreamed of being someone else, a different person with dreams of his own, for an hour or so every day. That hour was always the same, and always a little different.
It was a good dream. But now that dream is done. I've awakened to find myself in a tower, in a half-familiar city, both far from home and close to home. "Home," as a concept, is more complicated than you'd think.
My companions have all departed, each gone their own way, to their own idea of home. Tomorrow i'll be gone, too.
There are no happy endings, because nothing ever ends. The journey's not over, just the job. I don't know what comes next, but then, i never do. I just know, more and more, that all i want to do is tell stories for the rest of my life. For a few weeks, i got to do that. That's why it was a good dream.
If i ever have another one like it, i'll try to remember to tell you about it.
Til then, so long.
posted by alex at 9:21 PM
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