I was a desert that sprouted nothing until the King Of Dreams came to me.
Partly in mortal form, a hint of himself, enough but not sufficient. Not for having.
Then mostly he scattered himself in pieces for me to follow, crumbs in a mighty forest, within a vast mythology being born, chained to this time and space, this particular shade of night.
Since then I have been haunted by skies and constellations, stammering in the language of stars.
I have looked for him in the dead ends of too many love stories that never were.
There was a time I escaped into the blissful oblivion of being simply ordinary, in a perpetual loop of make-believe wakefulness. I traded my sleep for money. I stopped seeing the night sky. There was only eternal daylight and flickering screens and the prisons of powerpoint. I convinced myself that it was enough. That it was all there ever would be.
Until I could not do it anymore.
Then I fell into a deep sleep. There were no dreams. I was dead. I was a shell of myself. I was a ghost.
I was once again a desert, this time littered with bones and streaked with the ashes of hope.
But there were seeds, from long before. From the time when the King of Dreams allowed me a glimpse of something he made me forget immediately after.
The seeds stirred.
I woke and I was someone else becoming.
I gave birth to poems and paintings and half-finished fairy tales. I am not yet done. There is a grand event yet, for which everything else has been preparation.
I am myself again, almost, somehow. A truer self, perhaps.
I still cannot remember that which I was made to forget.
But I can feel the memory twitching, somewhere close.
Images from The Sandman Overture, The Deluxe Edition.