I mindlessly soared across the astral vortex, without purpose, without fear and without debility, the totality of consciousness as my guide. Fully aware of my dream the previous thirty-seven times, this one is no exception. I usually wake up before diving into the whirlpool of continuum, but not this time. The whirling, seething particles felt both alive and tractable, my innards affluxing towards the convergence.
I was hurled like a comet, splattering across tinctured sanguine horizons, twirling madness bursting through the cleft of eternity. I was violently hammered into myself. My flesh peeled by solar winds while crystalline ice frosted my thoughts, fragmenting my essence. There was no terminus. The journey was not one of external voyage, but of inward ambiguity. Had I found something powerful, consequential or revolutionary? Was this but random neural firing, an electrical overload betwixt my axons and dendrites, the chemical constructs of dreaming? I was absolutely awake inside my dream. I was touching, it seemed, the very fabric of time/space.
I stood on a perpetual slabs of blackness, an empty vacuum of desolation. I traversed the mountains of madness, floating in my still pool of serenity. It stands to reason all things have an opposite or reflective contradiction. I have long sought this mirrored reality, the antithesis of what is.
Across the astral fluxion of churning kaleidoscopia, stratified layers of multitudinous flowers bloomed in maddening arrays of luminescence. Liquid aroma washed my soul—iced perfumes of netherworld delectation—beautiful crimson waterfalls lavished my dreams as I fell into oblivion. Endless existences of flowered red, silken rainbow petals in silver storms, tornadoes of ice and fires of cardinal rain.
My Crying Flower
My velocity quieted into slowness as I was drawn forward, a pinpoint of brilliantly ripened vermilion, a single flower so red, so perfectly alive . . . yet so alone. I leaned forward to smell its endless beauty, to inhale its intoxicating vapors, its hypnotic secret of scarlet dreams. My desire to pick this flower was unbearable, unfathomable and surmounting.
I grasped it’s stem with powerful intent. It cried in florid pain. It spoke to me in psychic tongues–its fiery tentacles shrouding my soul; veiled in rubescent shimmer. It sobbed do not sacrifice me. A billow of icy tears drizzled in cool rush, interleaving my warm fingers.
It was my flower.
My crying flower.
I am truly thankful to have the ability of lucid dreaming. Some call it astral projection, out of body experience and many other terminologies. I know not why or how, but it is majestic and beautiful. My favourite colour is red. Though it is somewhat dark, it is also strangely beautiful, exciting, intoxicating and wicked. I always find the potency of fiery scarlet in my dreams. I wish everyone could see what I see.
*The flower picture is from Blusti.
