The melting pot pressure from all around squeezes the life from every creature on earth, but in our dreams are we in control, or is something beyond comprehension deciding what occurs every second? What if time can be measured another way? A way so fantastic it’s beyond human comprehension. Ruminate on what is holding us up? In the material world we can see it. In the dream world is it our memories, thoughts, imagination? I watch leaves from trees fall in autumn, they hang on the wind until the wind is gone, then land on the earth rot and become the earth. Memories, thought, ideas, never rot. They evolve into a higher-level system discovered by the few who have a vision of what is possible.
The melting pot releases a mixture of imagination into the air, and as it floats upward is pulled down through the filter of history bouncing, avoiding, and latching on to a familiar object to challenge the past and create a design in snapshots that the few either by chance or deliberate attention can see what it may become. How does existence become essence? How does perfume from a flower? Just walk in the forest in autumn with a soft breeze, and the aroma of the earth will find you as birds say goodbye.
In front of the door, a huge red door with iron hinges squeaks open, and inside is a vessel containing burning incense, and holding this iron container are creatures that glisten in the light casting a shadow. The aroma grows stronger, objects I’ve never seen appear as I approach the iron pot container to glance inside. I walk across a blue gray stone floor, stones place in a precise pattern to offer the visitor a dizzying array of what in in front and all around. Standing there gazing at smoke rising and twisting between molecules of space I focus on the figure revealing itself. Now I see, waiting to catch a moment of time that holds the secret to time. I feel a heartbeat, my hands throb, the vision almost in sight, then bells peal vibrating my brain.
I close my eyes thinking about my first memory, and that’s when I realize I’m traveling through the past so quickly it’s a blur, skipping days, months, years. I hear dancing voices and wonder how can voices dance. These voices are familiar, and reverberate flowing above, spinning into a funnel disappearing into the iron vessel. Finally it’s quiet, silence louder than sound, and I look into the iron pot watching the smoke write a message that says- You’re part of the ocean, and part of the sky- I see it on your face when you laugh and cry. I try to grab the smoke, then I feel a hand on my shoulder, I turn, and see essence I’ve been searching.