The dream was an overwhelming consensus (thriving, even, within the head) of Seba stood and stared at the uppermost top hat as the windmills spun with some volition beyond his eye's comprehension. The patterns of colors flashing above the smokestack black of each hat's flat top whirled with the wisdom only color can lend to some thing in formation. He sunk so low into the poem of colors that he missed the first part of whatever the third top hat's mouth was ending with "and damn divinity for creating in us the imaginings of perfection while being bound by our faults from calling it forth."
So here we have our intrepid adventurer admiring him's elf in the mirror of the mind. Abstracting the void into shapes or devouring the frantic becomings that arch out of the fathomless deep beginnings disguised as antipathy to our fragile fleshy kind. He's not devious, even if the faces he is practicing blend into danger where his eyes' receivers mesh with the emotional mechanism - down there be a squeltering admission of faith in the process. All the emotive clusters of twinges and tickles bellow the same deep breath - 'Tantilize us!" No matter the defeats his ego has clamored away as memories to rot into food for angels assigned to clean up after our haphazard paths plowed thru this glorious creation. They are barred from all but watching and singing some.
Seba's more aware of his emotions than most bipeds, but he's still attached to naming them, like pets or any type of color, forgetting even the dismal shreds of boundaries all such labels apply upon things that then are rooted in time, say, or space. The space of his heart doesn't often remind him of his head, though the reverse is often the case; until his heart finds space among all the straws grasped and piled to breathe between. Hollering in thumps it can easily drive awareness to the outer body, by raising temperatures and squeezing the lungs with a tightness least often found lying around after sex or, more likely, in the cracked open vein of a secret. That is what is rising in Seba's mystery - the intuition of what time has seen fit to obscure until what will soon be now. The dreams are all jumping towards the sky in the hopes that the sun's warmth will take them up to leave him cooler.
This world holds a thousand fascinations such as one extreme making a calm way for its spectrum's specter, its opposition in force or freedom, the unmaking is never undone. Seba's cloak of wishes sewn from a thousand mid-day desperate decisions only warms him with enough hope that the world will drift apart with nary a squeal, only serve to weigh him down long enough to walk, but such disparate desires never really carry one in a particular direction so much as draw out the deepest farces of emotion. The emotions tinged with fright are often found rising to the top because of these antiquated flesh sacs' need to keep in functioning order and the flavor of fear being so bitter as to drive action up from the marrow. Looking about him he's seeing how the whole of the world shatters whenever he blinks but there's no clue as to how existence is re-crafted with as much speed as it takes his mind to sharpen the colors of his eye back into shapes its grown comfortable operating among. Such dilemmas have brought Seba to the brink of laying down for a breather but even his practiced breath holds only onto the relative shallows of the deepest pocket inside his core - which is barely keeping afloat as an outlying orbital around the truer, centerer, center.
"Love fits in here" the airs whisper as if pointing, but look where he may the flatness of gravity still seems to keep even the roundest surfaces without love-shaped holes that it seems all of everything burrows towards the sun in search of filling. Seba plugs his ears to better taste the air's waste and let some fashion of electricity pass between his ears. Not knowing how his hands become encharged with the very pulse of the universe has yet to stop beings from harnessing the divinest forms of form or is it energies of energy?
None can be unsure of anything enough to really divest the soul from its previous struggles. Yet we try to remember our past as if it were a part of our future though where, in the dankest slices of self, can the last thing you were hold forth without its meaning being churned by the ever-nowing spin of one's perspective moving into the eternal horizon? Here on the cusp of everything the distances fall away creating space for an entire being to unfold all its corners of self-assumed functions, everything from draining the life from nutrimentations to the vanities every glance implants in a mirror. There's nothing different within us from anywhere else, so long as you can step back from your own head long enough to circumnavigate the currents fed from the well-spring into anything that you have yet to be in this world among each of us. The divinity we so desperately wish to touch us is beyond our grasp because it arises from within each of us. And for some damned reason inversion of the emotions may be played, but inversion of the self takes so much of a lifetime as to render the practice of anything else moot with the decay time wafts behind like an odor but even sharper in the skin than the nostrils.
Seba's lungs were never up to the task of breathing in life, which makes it handy his body can run on oxygen clustered among nitrogen. It never has been death that woke fear but often the fear of time itself and its deliberate wiggling in between each and every portion of the world he has come to move his head around or his heart towards. But the rules of this world bear little resemblance to the ideals (for calling them ideas carries not enough emphasis upon their innate desire to occur which fills Seba's head as he thoughtfully welcomes them) he would have arranged a life such as this around.
Having awoken with such distances between all the happinesses he had known and where he finds his noggin often spinning our explorer into the cyclone of the past spent in futilities, intuition is tried and he charges his guts with treason. Intuition doesn't exist in the past so much as gets blamed or congratulated as the present. So to attach his head back on right this morning, after it rolled through the valley of dreams, requires aiming it in a different direction - a direction of unexpectationalism where the past has no bearing on this next future but serves as iconic portraits his brain has painted in its best attempts to digest the times he's made it through and to better able him to share him's elf with all the others' elves wandering among what are called sunbeams, but desire to be known as God.
Looking with this new headirection with nothing but him's elf to see in the world he explodes in the realization that God felt the same way in order to begin the universe: to have company! The worlds forms and functions viewed under this light reveal entire dimensions that are unsealable without the soul's recognition of purpose beyond it's elf. "There's nothing here but mes" he's yelling off the balcony at a street waddling to and from. Heads turn, undoubtedly, to scoop up some particle of perspective on this occurrence so as to better report it to whomever will listen over the next coffee; but Seba is not able to see such actions partitioned among fleshes because it is the very colors re- flected and -fracted from beyond everything as color as touched and fed by the sun's proximate light.