the forlorn seeker

The voices of leaves sound like the thoughts of sparrows. It was long after dusk and I was sitting near the fireplace, staring into the dancing flames and sending my thoughts outward in concentric rings. My mind touched the polished stone blocks that made up the walls, warm from the heavy air on their inner side, cold and moist towards the chilly tempest outside. I penetrated the swirling chaos, the fragile substance of rain, leaves and autumn storm, reaching for distant seekers, equally probing the unpleasant weather outside for me. I passed by the trees that guard the sunrise side of the small shelter against the unforgiving force of the slashing rain and screaming air, feeling their dry, ancient voices curiously reaching for my wandering mind. Farther on my thoughts roamed, ever outward from my lonely body, resting comfortable in white, soft furs within the amber circle of the crackling fire. I barely took notice of the next few minutes, for the curiosity and fascination of sleeping or stubborn minds entering my circle of sensation was long past and I yearned for a true contact, a waking mind, a seeker like me.

As I swam through the silver-veined voice of the nightward mountains, a sudden sting caught my attention. A crystal spine, a frail pinnacle of sparkling light, resting somewhere deep beneath those ancient rock and metal. Diving for the source of these beautiful thoughts, carefully circling and drawing closer, I realized that this was by no means a fragile building of interested yet unexperienced dreams, but rather a solid, unyielding tower of utmost excellence. Its dreamer had to be an experienced and ancient mind for the structure was so delicate and yet radiated such a pure beauty that it must have taken unimaginable skill and patience to weave it from memories and wishes. I slowly approached this fantastic gem of light, having never before noticed it, for it lay buried deep within the mountains and only my carelessness had made me glide that low through their dark and iron roots this time.

While I beheld this glistening torch in the swirling emptiness, I got the distinct feeling that it was in turn watching me. As I headed for a tall, slender window, the golden tower stirred before my mind's inner eyes, pillars retreating and spidery ornaments snaking their way to form a new opening. By the time I had reached the radiant walls the gothic window had transformed into a wide arch, building a portal to beckon me in. I felt somewhat uneasy at first, for I had never encountered such a gifted master of the art of dreams ever before, but in the end my curiosity and my respect for this magnificent citadel won and I strode through the entrance to meet the mind that had constructed this luminous building.

A silent singing entered my consciousness and after a moment I realized that contact had been established, the tower's architect and inhabitant had begun to converse. The singing unfolded into a wider melody, a probing chorus and, after reassuring itself that I was able to cope with this increasing spectrum of dream tongues, surrounded me with a stunning aura of reality, conjuring up vivid images, melodies, tastes, fragrances and caressing that I nearly lost myself within, believing me awakened from my journey to an unknown life inside this beautiful citadel.

I witnessed fragments of my hosts memories, the solitude of existence in a dark emptiness where nothing dwelled, imprisonment beneath the gray rock and silver, the unemotional longing for sensations, the sudden realization of pain, for the strive had been unpleasant, the overwhelming joy about this first emotion, even though it was such a macabre one. Then, after what must be eons for us short lived mortals, came understanding, the voice, the tongue of dream control, the first voyages through the empty rock, probing further and further, the gleeful euphoria upon first touching the friendly mind of a lonely animal, lost from its pack, friendship, loss, sorrow, the solemn exploration of the rock, endless and empty, only sparsely speckled with any voices willing to converse, for the mountain is always tired. Not knowing that anything might exist outside that area of loneliness, the retreat and sadness, brooding in the dark, then, after ages of fruitless dreaming, the sudden frenzy, the move of despair, the inward march, scaling the iron scales of the own mind, the agonized scratching at the crystal walls.

I was familiar with that, for the idea of exploration in my own seeking mind had occurred to me, too. I found it a very straining task, however, and after failing a dozen times had come to the conclusion that there must not be any means to travel to ones own mind. My host seemed excited at these very thoughts, for the glass arches and pillars took on a feverish glow and the tale increased in impressiveness.

After a multitude of increasingly boring voyages to the outside, my host had returned to the center, to its own mind, attempting again to gain entrance, a stubborn probing and bashing at these walls, then bitter silence. Unemotional study, enraged assaults, years of madness, lost dreams to be mourned forever, but finally success, the sleep of body and mind while only the will kept awake, uncontrolled, wild and disoriented. Disturbing, broken memories, outward dives, lost contact, run astray in the empty ocean of rock, then the sudden elation, the arrival at the very core, the own mind, its protective walls weakened and full of gaps because of the dreamless sleep. The success awoke the mind, walls blazing and pulsing with determination, but the journey was already completed, the dreamer had entered its own sleeping mind.

Bewildered exploration, not knowing its way inside its own shallow thoughts, for every change of intention caused a complete reorganization of the whole structure, feeble steps, then the growing fear of getting lost, of being imprisoned in the inside. After the first attempt to escape was in vain, the fearful exploration of the inner areas, the thoughts and memories we keep secret from our own consciousness. Surprise and euphoria at the resurrection of dreams thought lost and buried, then, after shame and admiration, a slow understanding of the inner being, the knowledge of all connections within dreams, the discovery of cause and consequence, the sudden opening of doorways, the peaceful escape from the self. Further exploration and then, eventually, the shaping of the mind, the construction of the dream fortress, the artistic carving of the beautiful tower I have seen.

Overjoyed I thanked my host and in return offered memories of my voyage from the cozy cottage room towards the distant voices, finding the silent tower only by surprise after my long and uncontrolled dive, declaring the existence of wishful minds beyond the barrier of rock. After my tale we both felt a strong urge to trod upon those promised paths and so we finally parted, willing to enter contact again in future dreams.

As I looked back, I saw the tower slowly crumble and terrified I turned to see what had caused this sad decay. Upon drawing nearer, however, I realized that nothing was dying, that the tower was only growing inward, gathering all its magnificent substance in an ever smaller spine, building up strength for the voyage. I halted, floating within the unshining veins of silvery darkness, watching for the travel of my newfound companion. A velvet song willowed up from the sparkling tower as it slowly burned into a tiny sun, reverberated from the bluish rock in low waves, then the silver veins beneath gazed upon the moonlight for the very first time, as my fellow seeker emerged from its imprisoned shell, a universe unfolding from the tiny eye, stars and nebulae, gathering, tearing apart to return again, places for others to inhabit, suns for others to gaze upon in wonder, distant planets for others to give names unto, dancing shooting stars for others to dispose their sorrows upon.

And god arose from the void that was before and is and will, and found the promised voices of sparrows and leaves.