Thursday photo prompt
This is your place, your home, far away, inaccessible. The lake is deep, a secret within many secrets. History has passed this castle by, and you, live on. In those dark waters, perhaps, lies a clue. But I will never know.
I cannot see you, except in one of those winter dreams. Silent, how can I be sure you notice me? You watch out, across those clouds, beyond our world, beyond eternity. Only now, only now I have lost you, do I understand who you are.
You, my love, in the castle.
Weekly Writing Challenge #168
I am a light sleeper. Maybe I have become one. Not that I wake up for no reason, not at all. I just hear sounds, sounds, not noises. In my sleep I try to identify them, like what was that rapping at the window? Or, was that stones falling in the courtyard?
I listen to the rain, I hear creatures moving. Also, I see marks, on mysterious old walls, and I try to decipher them, still asleep. Then I wake up, or near enough, and I can’t see them anymore. This makes me think, as I go back to sleep, that I may be inventing things.
The floors shake, the ground vibrates. Is this a dream, or is there an earthquake coming? The night is a long adventure, with short intervals. No ground to worry, it’s age. Or that is what I keep telling myself.
Old memories, the little demons amusing themselves to annoy me. This is it: they can’t unsettle me during the day, so they take their revenge at night, or try to. Bar a failure of imagination, I still have plenty of ideas of what they may be up to next, that is tonight. And the night after.
Image source: le grand homme de la nuit
Weekly Writing Prompt #132
Francis wanted to capture the dream: for the third night, he had read the name of a place he had known, and, now, wanted to build into the story. There were three, at equal distance from each other, the monk had said. The last day, his stare fixed on some old manuscript he had dug out from the loot of a raid, years back, he’d looked for clues. In the morning, like today, he could not recall the names. Long ago, he had travelled, feverish, and briefly lived there, at the vortices of the triangle, carried away by the rage to discover the truth.
Where he was now, near the small park, in the city he loved, was one of those places, he was certain of it. He tried to lift his arm, and discovered he was almost unable to move: he would have to go back to his therapist. He had to work, look again at the archives.
In the park, he had met the shadow of an old monk, one night. That was before the first dream. The monk had spoken in an old, forgotten, language, and Francis had only understood a few words. Where were the other two places?
Picture source: Monastery Garments
Inspired by the Secret Keeper’s weekly writing prompt#108
He kept seeing himself, in his youth, through dreams that did not have the shape of memories, in a role of a quiet spirit, an observer of his past life. Only near dawn, did the spirit at last morphed into himself, an old man lying in pain, aspiring to peace…
Picture: Gaston Xhardez, “Création”, photomontage, 1958 – via les-sources-du-nilles-sources-du-nil.tumblr.com
Inspired by the Secret Keeper’s weekly writing prompt #103
Still in the black,
dawn not so far away,
the last dream hoists its sail –
and, I, forever the jester
the fuse of your nights,
the white noise of your world…
Picture: Charles Baudelaire by Felix Nadar, 1855, via afrouiafroui.tumblr.com
Inspired by Sue Vincent’s photo prompt
His dreams were vivid, and the characters he met, often several nights on a row, as enigmatic as the stories they told. Of course, he could fly, walk lightly over the roofs of the city, silent and (almost) invulnerable. Early on, he had taken to follow several well used itineraries, snaking their way over the ancient buildings, some of them being the mere memories of places that may have existed there, in a distant past. He liked the blend of old and present, places he could retrace in his awaken life, and those that no longer existed, except in his dreams and in those of the mysterious beings who shared their secrets.
Only he had to watch out for the birds, whose dreams he could not share, and whose flights he had to carefully avoid: for, if there was contact, then suddenly he would come out of the dream, from whatever place he was at that instant, in the air or on the ground. He knew of several dreamers who had thus failed to respect the real masters of the skies, and found their fate in free fall.
NB – I have always been intrigued by the frontier between dream and wakefulness. As I looked at this week’s prompt, I was reading this article of The Places Journal, about Lovecraft and Ballard, who knew a thing or two about dreamers and their “corners”…
The prompt, Wednesday April 26
She belongs to this city, even if she would deny it. Her accent, I know, is – ever so lightly – from somewhere else, further East, for such is History. Once upon a time, those lands belonged here. Her roots are here.
And I, wandering those streets, drinking quietly on the benches of the parks, try to guess where she is, now, that war again sounds on the horizon. She haunts my dreams, her steps always fading, beyond some wall, or perhaps, behind a cloud.
The ruins have gone – so many women cleared the streets, as the soldiers jeered. At night I roam the squares, near the churches…
She’s nowhere to be found…
Photo: berlin 2017 © martin u waltz. streetberlin.net
It’s a recurring dream, not a nightmare, only its frequency makes me wonder. I look for her, she’s not there, but apparently I have just missed her, or so they say. Yet, she does not answer calls, she’s absent, or somewhere, where I am not.
But who is she? Is she my wife? Is she an old flame? Does she come from a hidden future, from a landscape where I err, lost or condemned soul?
I could do without those searches, before dawn, or so early that I cannot make up my mind: should I get up and make coffee? But then the noise of the grinder would wake up my companion from her sleep. Or should I attempt to find rest, at last, away from her?
But there is the dilemma: she’s not looking for me, it’s me who seems to be pursuing her. But what for? Lost keys? A borrowed book? A forgotten promise?
Next time round, the place will be slightly altered: another room where the search starts, corridors, maybe an underground station? But the feeling would be the same: not that again! I don’t want, I swear, nothing to do with me!
Or is there something I refuse to admit?
Image: Hiromu Kira, The Thinker, 1930, via last-picture-show
angels wings – flutter of dreams/ borrowed souls
white light over –
the dreams untold through
the long night