Going Stale

When reality infringes upon the dream world.

But there goes my little boat, replaced by a fair ship. A feeling that I'm not alone though no other is visible. Gone is my calm, still ocean. The boat-ship bounces along on the water, until larger stronger waves come to send it skidding through feet of nothingness. Then comes the tidal. Massive blue with streaks of white and it's jagged top. Towering over my tiny vessel, the great wall rushing towards me. A fair blue sky suddenly darkens and I feel panic surround me. Not inside of me but a strong sense of it from those invisible beings that inhabit my boat with me. Holding on to some support, perhaps it was a railing. Or maybe a mast, though the image of one doesn't come readily to the mind. The complete absence of all sound but the water crushing it's own surface as it rapidly devours anything that might stand before it.
And then it hits.
Warm air, blowing against my face and a sudden darkness descend upon me. No water. No great force to throw me into the waiting arms of the ocean. More of a hairdryer held too low. And from that swirl comes a new image. Another land, familiar and not. But that's a tale for another time. Or one for no time at all.

Ghosts of the Kicks donts listen with the Talks

Sometimes it is reason enough to enter such lands, that the subject is a line I'd like to keep for a virtual forever. And though the amusement might fade, it's nice just to remember the first-times. Of things so many. Nice is such a small word, of pastries and fondant.

There's a lull in my life. A part of it. Though my days fly past me and 24 hours have rarely seemed as short, I feel shored. A lifetime spent standing on the shoulders of giants, what does it feel like to step off such a pedestal from where all could remain ordered and apt from a distance, and fine skills honed that have never withstood the test of humanity - much less time. To jump off, hitting the ground in a roll that just barely keeps the feet below and the head above, vast still oceans stretch in all directions, and the giants lumber off away from their concerns with miniscule masters. From way high up, there was so much to learn. And the teachers were always the best. Yet the uneven surface so far down puts things in an odd sort of perspective, though I gaze but from a corner of the eye.

Of things I have learnt, and things they tried to teach, of building boats much was said. Piece them together from the scraps around, and hold those together with a glue boiled over the years. More woe is me, that in the boiling of the glue my mind did waver, and so it was left to its own devices and those of the knowledge sat and said not. But now that they are gone to build anew would be perhaps more foolishness than that currently undertaken. And so the boat, flimsy and patched yet held together was pushed off, into the great sea, so open and empty to one eye, crowded with better and worse through the other. It isn't much. Just till the next island, where I might restock, rebuild or buy. Those who have travelled on heads in the clouds, a little swim would do no end of good. In the end, there must be more. Just a short sail, but with no map nor compass, each island is ever further, lost in a sudden fog.

Retail therapy isn't in the least bit overrated. Collectors editions of the the Chronciles and Legends of Dragonlance, with a budget-busting keyboard. Greensleeves is such a mellow influence, so far from the thoughts that gave birth to this. Where do I stand now? But a bit of Latin, a dash of Music, and years of reading. I'll be all the better for it, for no Captain of any one-man ship should step off without the slightest change. What a waste that would be.

Babes, tell them why I don't the trust the Indians.
Sorry?
Egjactly...