Not much to say here...
four days of an intermittently really nasty cold, and cold medicines (stopped taking them a day ago). (If someone sneezes in a room where you are, leave immediately, then text them with a made-up appointment – you absolutely don't want to get this one.)
And the last day or so remembering several dreams, perhaps two pages worth; and idyllically sunny weather, lying on the couch in a haze (a pleasant haze when the cold allowed, a less pleasant haze when it didn't).
But this evening's last dream threw me... can't... entirely describe it. Not because it wasn't fairly specific, but because I'm skeptical about any value from turning it into words. Wanting to remember, to record, as much as I can so as not to lose it – but of course worried about distorting and fragmenting it as a result.
Some kind of magic, suddenly fading magic, and rather than being silent I speak up to ask questions – a slim, dark man with a kind, calm face turns and says to me, what do you want to ask?
And I say, what about all of this – it is
going, or is it about to be gone – everyday time is returning – time and
space in our world are so much more predictable, yes, they are safer, but still it is all too
plain and dull; and he says no, it’s still remarkable, you just have to see it
–
And I'm left with strong, strange feeling of yearning, of longing, and the sorrow of being earthbound.
And awake, a warm twilight with gorgeous light across the sky, and people's voices in the street below as they pass.
And sadness, a lot of old, old sadness. Rereading the end of The King of Elfland's Daughter, and Lud-in-the-Mist..
(... a day after posting this, it would be dishonest to avoid adding: I know that people have seen the end of each of those books as a transcendent representation of death, and the triumph over, or of, time. Which doesn't worry me of course; but which perhaps should not be forgotten, by me, either.)
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