The rain is folding in waves against the windows. I close my eyes into moments of lull. In the intricate weaving of life, a flow emerges. Remain steady. Stand ready. I am swaying on cusps, seeing into futures, and I delight at the hope before me. This choice I have been given, to live a life of noticing the smallest things, is the most precious gem I hold. My gold is woven in possibilities and endless patterns of emerging change. Sunsets have no ends nor sunrise beginnings. It is an infinite timelessness merging days into slow minutes. Everything can change in an instant. Tides turn as I row with the ebb and flow. This sea is more vast than I can see. Endlessness is filled with rhythm and hope. I am home no matter where I roam because life is always surging. I was born with portals for DNA, and so I travel the waves through distance. This is my time.
It happened early Tuesday morning. It has taken me this many days to verbalized it. Describing violent images is not an easy task. You see, the heart beats faster and faster. The head gets heavy. Hands shake. You close your eyes into short meditative moments, breathing and counting.
Inhale. 1. 2. 3. 4.
Exhale. 1. 2. 3. 4.
With each breath I center. This is not reality. This is violent imagery, seeping the emotions hiding inside my body’s cells.
I am in the third perspective, observing. I have floated to the ceiling, and I am looking down upon the scene.
I am on a bed. I have on black pants and a white, short sleeve t-shirt. I am flat on my back. My arms are beside my body, which is completely straight. I cannot see my feet.
The bed is surrounded by people standing shoulder to shoulder. They are not moving. They are silently looking at me as if assessing their handiwork. They are gray forms. I cannot see them clearly. They look almost like carved out statues except for their left hands. Each one is holding a large knife in their hand. It is dripping with bright red blood.
From my unnoticed perch I’m the ceiling I am quizzically observing my own stomach and chest area. I feel no emotion as I look. It is hacked into so many pieces it mimics brutally tenderized meat. Blood is soaked into the white sheet all around me.
My gaze moves to my face. I believe I am still alive. My eyes are black. My facial expression looks peaceful. There is no scream to my mouth or contortion.
“How odd.” I think.
I awaken with a start, my muscles jerking, my heartbeat rapid, and I look at the clock. It is 7 am. I have chills in my skin. I curl beneath the covers, turn on a movie and make my mind try and forget. The images invade my day, drifting in and out. I know this will fade. I have been here so many times now, in the aftermath of violent night travel into the subconscious.
I bring out the emotion there. I hold it in my hands. It is the ghost wounds of countless stabs cast into the center of my spirit. I let it fade until I can be here now, scribing it without tears.
Digital Art ©VennieKocsis.com
I am a child, maybe around eight or nine years of age. I am in a large house with at least three stories and a basement. I am in the basement with many other children. We are moving large objects, too heavy for our small bodies to be moving on a consistent basis. I can’t quite make out exactly what the objects are. They are square, almost like blocks of concrete.
I am watching myself in third person, up against the ceiling looking down. My hair is somewhat matted as though it has not been washed in quite a long time. My face is dusty. I have on burlap pants and a t-shirt that is stained. I cannot see my feet to know if there are shoes on or if I am barefoot. I seem to have been down here for a very long time. All of us children have. I look tired, hopeless, worn, and moving methodically. We do not talk to each other. We do not look at each other. We move systematically, moving the large objects from a pile on one side of the basement to stack them neatly on the other side. I feel the heaviness of whatever we all are moving and organizing. I see the utter weariness in all our hunched over backs.
The dream scene changes. I am in my own body now. I am an adult now. I am sitting in a room with a large makeshift conference table. It is handmade with slabs of wood. There are many people around it in matching chairs made of tree trunks and tree limbs and nailed together pieces of board. I cannot see their faces. Only their forms. They are a mixture of mirage and shadow, shifting between color and black and white. I know I am being expelled from the house. I feel that this is a regular occurrence, that once we children reach adulthood, we are no longer needed there. I feel glad inside. I don’t understand why they aren’t worried that I and all the others they have released, will go to the authorities to tell on them. I am aware that my life has been spent in the basement. They are each talking to me, one at a time, as if giving instructions or even a farewell, but I am not listening. I am in my own head, devising a plan to come back for the children in the basement.
I awake this morning, with a pinched nerve beneath the left shoulder blade on my back. I let hot water pour onto it in the shower. I understand the emotion that moved through me last night. This reality of emotional pain is felt in multiple ways. It moves through my heart strings and sometimes settles into my muscles. It is not always mine. At times, it feels like the pain of every hopeless child wishing as I did when I was little, that someday someone would save me.
I am relaxing on a soft, off-white, leather couch. There is someone sitting on either side of me. My legs are stretched out in front of my body, and my head is resting comfortably on the back of the plush couch. I am laughing and talking with my present company as I watch the people around me.
This appears to be a party at someone’s house. There are a lot of people everywhere, standing in front of me, drinks in hand, throwing their heads back as they have joyous conversation.
There is an attractive man directly in my gaze. My eyes zero in on him. He is wearing a baby blue, thin, cotton shirt, lazily untucked over washed out jeans. It is rolled at the cuffs up to his forearms and slightly unbuttoned at the chest. He reminds me of the ocean. He has a brilliant smile. His eyes even seem to gleam. I can’t break my gaze from his beautiful face. He is mesmerizing. He notices me looking at him and flashes a smile my way. I return it, and our eyes connect in a depth which makes the room temporarily fade away.
I turn my attention onto the person to my right. I cannot see anything about their body. They are a filmy grayish/silver figure, a mirage, not seen, but more felt by me. Their presence is there. I do not know our conversation’s topic. I know I feel happy inside of a rare moment of physical comfort in the midst of strangers.
Suddenly the man in the blue shirt walks swiftly towards me. He has a gun in his hand. He moves faster than I can blink. The gun is pressed against the bottom of my rib cage, and he is pulling the trigger over and over. As bullets enter my abdomen, my body bucks upwards. We have locked eyes, and he has the same sideways grin on his face. Except he isn’t beautiful to me anymore. He is sinister and cold, uncaring and damaging. Now I see pleasure in his eyes, pleasure which represents his love of hurting other people.
I feel disappointment in him. Why would he do such a disgusting and horrible thing? I had felt that he was one of the good ones.
“Why did you just kill me?” I ask him, but before I can hear his answer the dream fades to black.
I awaken with tears sliding down my cheeks. The clock tells me it’s shortly after three. My heart feels sad as I drift back to sleep. Yet, when I woke back up this morning, my spirit was filled with anger at how disappointing humans can all to frequently be.
I am back in my high school town. Although there are no beaches in Martin, TN, I am perched, legs crossed, in front of one. This small beach boasts crystal clear, soft blue water rolling in with a slow, tender tide. I am sitting in an ancient stone colosseum. It is as if it was lifted from a fallen city and placed where it grandly sits now.
I am wearing an elegant black dress, shoulderless and simple. I glance down at my toes, perfectly painted deep blue and tucked inside of toeless, black heels. My hair is coifed and sprayed perfectly in place. I am grandly dressed for the symphony.
I am perched alone on one of the stone benches, closest to the stage which has been set up with the beautiful beach as scenery behind it. On stage is a large orchestra filled primarily with strings.
The music surrounds me. I close my eyes, feeling the soft embrace of the cello and the haunting tears of the violin strings.
Suddenly my right forearm begins to itch. I look down and see a red bump close to my wrist. It looks like I have been bitten by a mosquito. I scratch the bump, and when I do, the skin lifts and ants come scattering out of the hole in droves, covering my wrist and hand.
I wake up.
It’s coming out.
I am watching myself in third perspective. I am feeling myself in first perspective. I am doing both of these things at the same time as I sleep lucidly dreaming.
I am prone on a metal table. My head is secured with something, maybe a strap. I can’t quite make it out. There is a metal contraption holding my mouth open. It has been open for hours, maybe days. My lips are three times their normal size. They are cracked and dry. My throat is screaming for water. I fade out.
Now I am wandering through a market. There are vendors everywhere selling fruits, vegetables and various wares. The market is packed with people. I feel conspicuous and paranoid that I will be recognized. By whom I do not know.
My hair is grossly disheveled. I can sense that I am confused as to my whereabouts. I cannot make out the ethnic or planetary race of the people manning the market stands. They are shadowy and fading in and out. I don’t know if they are human or if I am in another country on earth. I feel taller than them.
I am unsure what planet I am on. My lips are so dry they are vastly blistered. I focus my view in on my mouth in order to assess the damage. They are horribly cracked, dry and swollen. I am cupping my hand over my mouth to shield them, not from embarrassment, but from being recognized. I feel that the condition of my lips will give away that I have escaped. From what I do not know.
Who have I run from? Who am I hiding from? What am I looking for in this market? Something to moisten my mouth and throat.
I wake up at three a.m. desperate with thirst. I stumble down the stairs and fill up a glass of water that I gulp and re-fill to gulp again. Cake. I am craving sugar. I shove pieces of it into into my mouth to curb the sudden craving. My lips are actually extremely dry. I slather them with Chapstick before falling back into sleep. I awaken into the day feeling the sadness of this world’s indifference, and I escape to the woods with moistener for my lips.
Did I travel? Am I remembering? Or is this just a dream? This life is confusing.
I am in the kitchen of a house. I am standing at the sink watching out of the window above it, enjoying observing some teenagers hanging out in the front yard; if dust and gravel can be considered a yard. There are two teen boys sitting in chairs talking together. A couple more are doing something at what appears to be a garden bed. Maybe they have built it and are continuing to work on their project.
Suddenly, vehicles are pulling up into the yard so quickly that dust begins to swirl like mini storms, causing the teens to start jumping out of the way. There are at least three SUV’s and another two to three black, four door sedans. They all have tinted windows. The inhabitants of the vehicles are getting out fast, as if they have a hostage situation on their hands or are about to enact a raid. They appear to be state officials, a mixture of FBI, Child Protective Services or similar institutions.
“What the hell is going on?” I think.
I turn to look behind me. A family lives in this house. It is not a fancy house. It is poor and as clean as a person can make a home with such shabby provisions. Even with the sparse accommodations, the appreciation and neatness given to this small residence shows that this house is loved.
I do not live here. I don’t know how I’ve come to be here or why. I am inside the house with a woman who is a stranger to me. She is the mother of these teenagers.
I look back out of the kitchen window. Time has turned into compartmentalizations as if the rest of the dream is frozen for a moment, and I stand watching a new scene that is progressing almost in slow motion.
There is a clothesline to the left of the dusty yard. it is set above lush and emerald green grass. Beautiful sheets in a vast array of differing colors are hanging from it, secured with equally colorful clothespins. There are rows and rows of them; purples, blues, reds and pastels of soft lemon and cotton candy shades.
A couple of the woman’s pre-teen daughters are laughing and dancing inside of the blowing sheets. The girls are unaware of the invasion in progress on the other side of the clotheslines. The many pieces of material keep softly moving in the breeze. For a moment I am mesmerized by the beauty of this colorful scene, the dancing girls and the sound of their free spirited giggling.
The panicked desperation of the mother’s voice snaps me back to reality and time begins to speed up again.
“They are here for my baby! Please, please hurry! Please, please help me!”
I don’t know what to do. I process quickly that these people have come here to take one of her children. Okay. Where is the child? I jump into action.
“Why do they want him?” I frantically ask her as I move towards the living room.
“I don’t know! I don’t know! But they are here for him!”
She is frozen in front of me, and her eyes hold the deepest fear I can imagine. She is small and frail with worn skin on her face; worn skin that comes from long hours of labor, suffering, sacrifice and a life of work. I am filled with compassion, absorbing her weariness and fright.
I see the child playing on the floor with an array of small little cars, toys and blocks. He is around four or five. He has dark hair, and he is built small for his age. He has on blue jeans, a light blue shirt and tennis shoes with Velcro closures. He is completely oblivious to what is going on around him right now. I rush over and softly take his hand.
“Hey! Come with me!” I sing in a happy voice. “We’re gonna play hide and seek!”
He takes my hand and jumps right up. I feel his elation at getting to play with me. I look down, and he is looking back at me with the sweetest smile. He doesn’t make a sound. I am enthralled by his presence. His energy consumes me. There is an acceptance exuding from this child that I have never felt in any human before. He is perfectly calm and unaware of the danger he is in. I sense that even if he was aware, he would still exist inside this ability of intensely calm acceptance. His eyes reflect more wisdom then I have ever witnessed in my life. He is pure love and knowledge.
The boy and I walk quickly to the back bedroom. The authorities are banging on the front door. The mother is biding time.
“I’m coming!” She calls loudly. “Hold on! I’m getting dressed!”
Her voice is shaking, and I know that I must move very swiftly now. Time is of crucial essence. This mother won’t be able to hold them off for long before they kick the door in.
I scan the bedroom for hiding places. There are none. The closet. No hidden compartments. There is just a mattress and box spring set on the floor. We are trapped in this room. My heart is thumping. I have to figure out how to hide this child.
My eyes come to rest on the back left corner where the walls meet. I see a patterning as if I can peel the paint off.
“Come!” I urge the little boy.
The authorities do not waste time. A boom indicates the door has just been crashed in. I can hear the mother screaming. I am racing as fast as I can. I pull the paint back from the corner of the walls. It comes right off, a thick layer of paint that stays in one large piece, almost as if it is a purposeful flap. I glance behind it and see the wooden framing of the house.
“Get in! Hurry!” I urge, helping the boy slip behind the paint flap.
He jumps right in and turns, standing straight between the wooden two by fours of the wall. His arms are relaxed by his sides. He is still silent, looking me directly in my eyes as if to say he is alright to stay in here for a while.
“Don’t make one sound until I let you out, okay?” I instruct firmly.
He continues to silently smile, and his eyes wordlessly tell me he understands everything. He understands all of life. This is why they want him.
They are coming down the hall. I hear their footsteps. Running. I throw the layer of paint back on the wall, pressing it into place as best I can. I am hoping the peeling paint will simply fit into the run down condition of the house.
As they open the bedroom door, I pick up a piece of clothing, pretending that I am merely cleaning up the room. I focus on my breathing as not to give away any knowledge of who they are. I look up and see a woman in a black suit, she has dark hair, parted in the middle and pulled straight back into a tight bun at the base of her head. Her features are so inconsequential to me I cannot describe her. She feels robotic, a clone of every female operative character ever portrayed in an espionage movie. I even expect her to have one of their accents. I suddenly fight an urge to laugh.
She is flanked from behind with authorities wearing black covert operation apparel; gun belts laden with multiple bullet filled clips, thick black pants tucked into boots and matching long sleeved under-armor shirts. Their bullet proof vests are their final layer, along with goggles and shrapnel helmets. I think how ridiculously extreme all of this force is, just to find a child, but I act startled when they come in, jumping back, dropping the shirt I’ve picked up back down to the floor, acting afraid as if I had no idea they were in the house.
My heart is thumping a bit, but I feel more calm and fearless than I had expected I would feel. I am thinking each step through. Do not give indication or look behind me, not even with my eyes. Give no clue that I know where the boy is.
I focus on my thoughts and stay silent.
“Don’t make a sound.” My mind urges him. Somehow I know he can telepathically hear me. “Don’t move an inch. Don’t cough.”
I do feel worry that they will discover him in the wall. I worry that this woman will ask what is behind that large paint patch in the corner, but I am able to focus completely on masking my worry.
“Where is he?” The woman demands.
“Who?” I ask innocently.
She says the boy’s name.
“Oh! I think he went to [so and so’s] house for a play date. What is wrong? Did you talk to his mother? Is he okay?” I feign worry as if I believe they are here to protect him.
The woman is looking at me intensely, and I know she doesn’t believe me. She is trying to read my mind. I feel amused by this. I sarcastically think ‘good luck, lady.’ I am ready for her questions.
“Who are you?” She demands.
“I’m here just helping doing some cleaning.” I cryptically reply not giving up my name.
I do not plan to answer any questions she might ask me next. Fuck her. I do not feel afraid of her. She thinks her mind is stronger than mine. She doesn’t realize that it is not. She does not know the depth of my abilities. I feel confident in myself. I feel protective worry for the child. I know without a doubt that I will fight, even die, to protect him.
My mind focuses back towards the pattern on the walls where the paint has been peeled. I block the woman’s existence in front of me as I focus.
“Do not let them see it.” My mind says. “They will not see it. There are no lines. The lines are invisible.”
The woman heads to the closet rummaging through piles of clothes. I stand still in my spot, compliant.
“I know he’s here somewhere. I know he is.” She is saying.
She surveys the room, and I stay standing quietly, wearing a perplexed look on my face as to reflect my confusion of why they’re here for the boy. She rummages through more of the clothes piles on the floor, poking at them with her heeled foot as if she will discover the boy under one of them.
“I know.” I say, sighing. “There is a LOT to fold in here”.
She is unamused by my attempt at distracting her with humor. Finally she realizes there is no place else in the room to look for him. She stares directly into my eyes. I gaze right back, blocking her attempt to dive into me.
“We will find him.” She firmly informs me.
I fight the urge to play with her. I fight my sarcasm. I am calm inside as I look directly back into her eyes feeling no fear or intimidation.
There is no smirk on my lips, no taunting expression. I too, feel an acceptance of what is and what my own abilities are. I am also aware of the soldiers. I will not be reckless, but even with them, I don’t fear their bullets or the supposed intimidating gear they’ve donned. They feel so insignificant and a waste of space in my current existence.
“Okay.” I agreeably reply to her. “If I see him, I’ll surely let you know.”
I have to get in at least one cryptic moment of sarcasm. We both know I will not tell her. We both know that playing the mind game with me doesn’t work. We have a moment of eye contact dueling, and I let my smile lines soften. I can gaze into her eyes all day. Of course she breaks away first. Naturally. All minions do. Even in her dedication to the dark forces she seemingly serves, she will always cower in the power existing in light. My confidence intimidates her.
They all turn, heading back down the hall to search the rest of the house. I pick up more clothes and continue folding in case they decide to turn around and come back in. I will wait until they leave the premises before we get the boy out of the wall. Then we will figure out what to do with him next.
As I am folding the clothes, I position my body slightly toward the wall. I see there are no paint lines. The wall is perfectly painted into one sheer dried layer.
Relief washes over my body that the paint lines and peeling edges really went invisible. I have a moment of musing how unfortunate it is that we’ll have to ruin the wall by using a sledgehammer to get the boy back out. That will make for some shitty cleanup. I chuckle to myself.
And so ends my dream.