This is the time of year when I sink deep beneath the blankets of sleep, and dream my most vivid dreams. I think it has something to do with the shortening of the days, and the pale sun that struggles to make it above the treetops. It triggers some sort of chemical reaction in my brain, that starts the ancient hibernation process within my soul. Sure, evolution and science have taught us that we are descended from primates, and primates don’t hibernate, but ask the Native Americans and they will swear that the animal man is most closely related to is the bear. If I had to choose, I’d prefer to be cousin to the Grizzly over the Gorilla.
So I lumber through the daytime, and collapse into bed each evening, diving deep beneath the green waves of dream, until I settle somewhere on the weedy bottom of the lake of consciousness. Memories slip through the murky water like silver fish, and when morning comes, and the nets are reeled up, I find myself laying on the deck beside the wet flapping of my dreams.
These memories that swim in the deepest parts of the lake, are like foreign species. Half remembered, half forgotten, over time the line between facts and fiction blurs beyond recognition. Do any of these stories contain the truth? Or are they merely attempts to grab something fleeting, that cannot be captured. In the end these stories stand apart from the past, and become a reality all their own. A written record of events that were as ephemeral as dreams. I pile them here like cairns to mark a trail so that I can find my way back.
One day we will descend into these emerald depths, and remain there, tangled among the weeds. The light above flickering dimly through the water, as we close our eyes and continue sleeping.