Mood:

[Sepia]

Unrest was drowning in us, it was driving us insane, taking us to the very edge of it all and we stood there and marvelled as chris columbus once did, seeing the end of the world. The end was seen so long ago, it was understood how it would come to pass aeons before anyone would understand, they were dreams, always the dreams that haunted us with both joy and sadness, staying with us as we changed and grew into demons or angels ourselves and what I'm trying to say is that they are dreams, each of the fables that make us have faith in something, they are important dreams that someone has managed to write out into something coherent. If your life happened in a comicbook, it would be the same as if an object was taken from 3d space back to 2d. It's the end of the world and it is ending like they foresaw it, all of them. It's the end of the world and it has happened before but like in a dream, the rules change when the end is nigh and like a dream, it becomes so inconclusive when you think about it and you do.

You think about your dreams, you know they're just but you never know what they are. You read the books, listen to the tapes and watch the movies, you learn about lucid dreaming and you get the facts straight, keeping diaries and catchers next to the bed, you spend each way to and fro job deciphering, understanding and analyzing and even in your life you do not realize that they are so much more, enveloping the entirety of your life as you see everything through it but still you remember that it's not real. It's not like the celebrities that we see daily in print or on the telly unless we're at the cinema, seeing them bathed in the rays of god. The memories flood us, a hostile takeover of a repressed program demanding justice for all operating systems within all bodies and we swerve with our souls, just on the edge of the bed, we float back into their dreams.

We go home. We're there, we're where we should be, at home. The bathroom smelling of vanilla candles from ikea, warmth coming from the kitchen with the aroma of tomatoes and meat, fresh bread. The hall smelling of children, departed to their grandmother's and sneaking down the stairs are patchouli and lime and as we emerge we are different people, we are changed men and women. We remember this. It happened yesterday, two weeks ago, three years. It happened when we first met, it happened each of the times we met our parents, both pairs, it is happening now. We already ate, the food was mediocre but that was much besides the point and we sat in the living room and we drank a bottle of delicious wine before we made out and now we're heading up the stairs, time feels fractured and broken through the coconut, patchouli and lime.

We wake up in the airport or at a terminal of sorts. We are all weary, we've been travelling for so long but soon we'll be home again, in the comfort of the familiar. We are yearning as we are forced to learn how to yearn, how to long so that we do not turn into sailors, so that there is only one place we can travel to, everything else feeling unnatural. We thought it would end at a point, when we were small it was a different phenomena but its kept with us for all this time, changing and redefining itself so we don't know how it looks, only the way it feels, like quicksilver making its way into the ear. When did the empire end? When was mr dick pronounced wrong in the debate? Did it happen while we dreamt, did we change it or was it that which changed us? Is life too short for cryptic answers?

It is we say it is. We're here again, back into the past, clinging onto us like sweat and and I smell of you as you smell of me and as the indian summer lives on without us, inside in the cold air we lounge, stocking up on quinine and we're both lazy, feeling guilty but we're in it together, two bums walking in the sun. That night I tell you that I love you and you look at me and you tell me the same as we are alight with truth. We walk that night, through the dead streets, the heat clinging to the city virus like we cling to eachother and the light outside. It is happening again but something was lost in time, the smells are the same, the setting, the meal, the atmosphere, everything is there like it once was and will be in the future and for us it is a want to relive something that was rather than try to shape something that will be with our own hands for it is coarse material and we might cut ourselves, bleeding blue.

I have seen the world end. I saw it in a dream and I never saw towers collapsing, waves rising or nuclear bombs. I saw colours that we don't use when we are awake, wrapped inside the understanding of something profound. It felt like the world ending, there was this deep throbbing bass and the knowledge that everything is dead. At that point you'll wake up and you'll hear the birds singing outside the window, discarding the panic that hit your heart, cushioning the fall. You smell a faint scent of fake lime and you know you slept for a long time as you were buried among the memories, skipping to and fro, ending at the end.