flintcrossed //|

©2022 Michael Raven

oracle, oh oracle
tell me of my dreams...

will the drizzle persist
tap-tapping on my head
down the wending trail
from pine to oak and
thorn to ash?

i wear my brim low
to keep eyes dry
hand on thorn
fire in skies

greystone of lichen
standing sentinel
flintcrossed palm
flintcrossed soul

Take me dreaming

©2022 Michael Raven

I’m not gonna lie.

Along with the standard nightmare junk food in my normal dreamscape, I have started dreaming more — or at least recalling more — and some of the recollections have been pretty damn fricking pleasant, far outweighing the dark, brooding and gloomy material that normally fills my nights.

Some of it is so kind of groovy that I find myself recalling less of the ghouls, possessions and monsters of the normal content and recalling more of the good shit. As a result, I find myself craving, rather than merely enduring sleep. Add to it the fact that I am a chronic insomniac, and I have some serious Zs to catch up on.

I’m tired, friends. Tired to the marrow.

Unfortunately, real life gets in the way, as it is not very supportive of aspiring Rip Van Winkles. I’d seriously love to do away with cat daddy and people daddy duty for a week or more, crawl into a hole and catch up on the sleep, as well as the smile-inducing movies I get to watch.

It seems amazing to me that this all has come about by a simple choice to revert to a theme of thought. I don’t want to get into the details, as they are unimportant, but it was a bit of a mental homecoming, returning to a place I once came from, seasoned with a bit of surrender and acceptance. I simple realization and, while not everything is hunky dory by any measure, the place of dreams has shed off some of the perpetual night, stalking and anxiety it has been painted with for damn near as long as I can remember. A simple change in a very simple thought.

But my new conundrum is my addiction to wanting to sleep. Well, not exactly… “wanting to dream” would be more honest.

Why my “novel” is still on page 20

©2022 Michael Raven

I’ve been writing the same scene over and over again, and deciding it probably will never be quite right. Prelude, except we don’t like the word “Prelude” anymore, so it is not a prelude, but the opening scene in a story that is most imagined in my head, and will probably never see the light of day, mostly because of perfectionist thinking and subpar output.

It twists and turns with each attempt to capture what I am trying to capture, like a snake that refuses to be grasped, wending and winding around my brain to choke until it can slip away. It lingers and, just as I think I have something workable, I wonder if it is appropriate for me, of all people to write about things in the past that have had zero impact on me as the basis for part of the story — although the rot goes deeper than the event as written. As I imagine the tale, the incident at the beginning of the story is but a symptom, not a cause. And that the events preceding the event I am writing about in my not-prelude is another symptom. No one knows what the real problem is, no one alive does anyway. Everything is outfall of a deeper tale that may or may not ever be written — or need to be.

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