It’s not new to him. The dream playing itself out, then rewinding, then repeating again. It was simple: The mind liked its loops, and the dream was the mind’s creation. And so a nightmare, for all its despair, could very easily become habit. It would never be comfortable, per say, but it would be… familiar. Maybe, even, a perverse kind of comfort.
But it’s always odd to be the newcomer to such dreams. To see them so clearly as what they are, and yet to lack the power to turn them off. Break the pattern. How he wished to dissolve the forest around them, to show the dreamer what opportunity lay packed beneath the repression of the nightmare. She could fly higher than the birds, swim deeper than the dolphins. Play hopscotch across the planets, or explore very deeply the color yellow.
Instead, he feels a flutter of claustrophobia as the roots settle around the mare.
All he can do is chirrup at her attention, purr in response to her words. As the rain stops Dune begins to gnaw determinedly at the roots that cage her. He pauses to meow at her with the urgent disapproval he had so often been subjected to by his cat friends. Help me,” he implies as he continues to gnaw away. “help yourself.” At one point he flops on his side and kicks at the bars of her cage, as though gutting a rat.
Eventually he stops, stands up, shakes the dust from his coat.
“You’re dreaming,” he says, in a voice not his own. It echoes in the trees that surround them, reverberating like a wave. A drop of water in a still pond: You’re dreaming.
You're dreaming, stranger.
so dream.
But it’s always odd to be the newcomer to such dreams. To see them so clearly as what they are, and yet to lack the power to turn them off. Break the pattern. How he wished to dissolve the forest around them, to show the dreamer what opportunity lay packed beneath the repression of the nightmare. She could fly higher than the birds, swim deeper than the dolphins. Play hopscotch across the planets, or explore very deeply the color yellow.
Instead, he feels a flutter of claustrophobia as the roots settle around the mare.
All he can do is chirrup at her attention, purr in response to her words. As the rain stops Dune begins to gnaw determinedly at the roots that cage her. He pauses to meow at her with the urgent disapproval he had so often been subjected to by his cat friends. Help me,” he implies as he continues to gnaw away. “help yourself.” At one point he flops on his side and kicks at the bars of her cage, as though gutting a rat.
Eventually he stops, stands up, shakes the dust from his coat.
“You’re dreaming,” he says, in a voice not his own. It echoes in the trees that surround them, reverberating like a wave. A drop of water in a still pond: You’re dreaming.
You're dreaming, stranger.
so dream.
@Luvena
