Untitled (Unfinished)

I dream...

I dream I am standing in the midst of the sunless lands, and I spot a throne of black basalt. Laying atop the throne is a beast (woman) of fearsome beauty. She (it) wears a crown of thorns, and a dress which does not reflect what little light hits it. The sky is jet black, with not a star to be seen.

I lay down and begin to sing. I sing of days lost and memories remembered, of ages long past and yet to come. I sing until the midnight sun appears over the horizon, though no light shows on the land.

Suddenly the ground shakes as if a thousand giants pound there feet simultaneously, and a tremor passes over my skin, which feels as if i had been dunked in oil. The woman (beast) stands, and the sky shatters into a million points of light.

And I awake, and take my birth right...

These are my dreams of late, filled with nonsense taken from a pulp writers mind. I know not where they come from. I am not one to daydream or fantasize. I live firmly grounded in reality, and take no stock in novels or games. Yet...

I dream...

I dream of lost cities risen from the ground, and oceans dried in mist and lava, while giants walk the land. The Morningstar is here, as is the King in Yellow, and all the old Gods: Yog Sothoth, Great Cthulhu, The Hectate, and countless others.

We dance, and sing, and writhe to the invisible beat of countless aeons of time. I drink the essence of you, the countless times we have made love, and faught, and danced, and ate. I sing of times we lost, wars fought in our countless names, for ours are legion, and the lost ages which will rise again.

And when i awake, the world is no more...

Late for work, again. I cannot seem to stay awake, my eyes feel like weights, drifting me off into the realm of sleep. I cannot concentrate, nor remember anything but the dreams. It is disconcerting, and as I write in this journal, I cannot help but feel that i might be going insane...

Through the quicksilver seas I ride, atop a warship of immense proportions. I cannot see the end nor the beginning of this ship, for it is limitless. And as I wade through the murky ink of night, and onward to the phosphorance of dreamer things, I take in the smell of you, and continue on my way.

For if God is the creator of all things, then I am but a speck in the universe, naught but a fly on the ass of the elephant we call existence. I cannot shake the feeling that I was born for greater things, though destined to live my life as captain of this ship. And through the sky we travel past the realms of love and hate, and into the unknown...

I was fired today, cannot seem to stay awake at work. The dreams keep coming, and I cannot feel the lids of my eyes as they fall... Maybe I should see a doctor.

And finally I see it, the universe as it was meant to be seen, beautiful in it's complexity. I see it begin and end and begin anew, much like a flower in bloom it opens and unfolds, then closes back in on itself.

I weep, for the meaning of all things becomes clear, and thus, I become the one, the creator, lord of creation. But then... I realize that I am not lord of everything, for I am but a dream of the unconcious of the trillions upon trillions upon trillions of inhabitants of my universe, and I am but a pawn in this game.

Again I weep, for I am but the peasent, and you are all my kings.