52/52 ; Irrevocable

11:11 AM

I awake from a slumber lacking sleep. Craving nothing. I want nothing. I wait to eat. I lay, until my body shakes and I am starved for the attention, the fill, the verse a dream lead me to believe was, as it had so clearly spelled out in every manner, face and page: defeat.

The dream encompassed all fears of my parchment. All fears past, and present. With the exception of the snake. Hiding in the drive, a pit. Which leads me to believe, as dreams can often foretell, that my initial dream–the pitiful pitfall–was of the future. That my Kingship is to harness these worries, these fears, and that I am to be weary of the way in which I am in enveloping them. That I am to be further weary of… the snakes surrounding, the demon king within. But away from the past dream of future particulars and back to the present dream gift.

In the dream that lacked snakes, I attended a party in rooms that moved like gardens. Rooms large, leading to the largest place: still. A stillness within the guests, but I, a reckoning. An after match of what I had done.

A house of design in which all mortals meet to give auction to their dreams. Bringing theie accounts a value in an education facility to function as an auction house for all its dreamers. Here, we had gathered for appraisal of the dreaming community, of dreamers like me, to determine our value. I have often visited in dreams this hellish maze of school repurposed and repurposed for the appraisal of my own mood. And, as I boarded into lands of education, I become the student of the boarding dreams. I the student of what to interpret, I the passerby of silent notions, for here no one is allowed to speak. Here, you must be appraised without input. The measure of your work shall speak for itself, a great difficulty for talkers, persuasives, and dependents of which I am all three.

I am conceived here. In this school house of mortar, brick and tar. Concrete floors upon every room, with the exception of a long hall, with shag grey carpet. It is a maze, I know my way around and am familiar, but do not mistake familiarity with comfort. I am never uncomfortable here. And as I travel, a new hallway, a pathway of apathy is opened anew. It is sometimes to a garden, more hallways, a silent classroom but last night to a room of art show. The auction.

I enter a room I remember with haze, for I have made a grave mistake of drinking in fumes. Open to a room of silent faces staring with judgement. A room emptying, done with appraisal on the very wide room. A room as large as the Grand Central terminal, with many windows without any view. Appropriate for we all collect here upon dream train, a hall of brother intent nor oasis.

A fog filtered the glass of each window large and the feeling, the smell even, of rain cascades past all walls. It is between the grim brim, within each window… dripping here. I remember only when I awake that this is the place a dragon slain once was kept, as I had looked, enthralled. A dragon I was not aiming to witness any more than save. A dragon that charred and boiled all people of this education place. I had been here before. But the room of banquet and art show treats, was new in encompassing the show itself. Never in the education house had I seen so many students. So many of life’s students gathered in one place. It was the dreaming of all I knew. It was of my people: my life. All creatures of earth were in this wide hall, all those asleep as I was. And we existed together with simple acknowledgment. But I, in a drunken stopper, searched to retrieve all of my unsold goods, as I came to. Flashes of the night previous came to me. How I embarrassed myself before the world trying to sing in a silent void. As I tried to commit those to take and accept my life’s work. I louder and louder with strain upon chords, I vocalized nothing and drank more and more. With each step a flat note remembered, a face judgemental looked on, and I wanted out from the failed appraisal of my life. I moved quickly, with haste in the fog of the rain and my brain. I collected what was thrown around of my books and studies. That was the measure of my life’s work, here upon tables, a mere collection of other people’s works. Others books. And. In the very wide room I was nearest the window, my art was shoveled below a table, in panic. The sheets of charcoaled faces, of all the events I had considered momentous in my life were thrown, walked upon. My art was nothing. My books were untouched. My song un-sung. And the pressure of Time iridescent trickled with haste on. Careful I was, every where. Most careful not to let the tears fall and smear such delicate works, works that meant nothing to anyone. The appraisal of my life was a joke to everyone. I groveled at not knowing precisely how to travel with those before me here. I decided to leave my art. I left song. I, un-sober, moved to my books, as my family had gathered to gather me now, patient in their disappointment.

They allowed me to walk alone and had stayed on the dull carpet of shag t’which matched my hair. Now from the room previous, they arrived and awaited silent, yet with tense impatience. They waited for me to gather it all, to finally be ready. They were ready for me to be done. And I rise to the challenge of their impatience, for no one wanted out more than I.

Appraisers were all gone. The time for effort was all gone. And only silence remained. And quiet they masked their continued anguish at the wait for my yet another unsuccessful day and another unworthy story. I, oft drunk, knew I must never pick up a bottle again, as the night before a fallen lover rose above me and made face to the reckoning I had made. Had it been disgusted by me I could bring myself to move more quickly, be made to feel something other than what the appraiser gave. Had the face scoffed or smirked, had the face merely turned away. Had the face done anything other than this… the face of sorrow gave the appraisal truth. I was failing without even flailing. I had failed. And with this a smile of sorrow could not even be gave. I dare not gaze into the eyes of any else. No one.

I had thrown art into people’s face. I had spent the entirety of the night screaming silence into a void of space. A space full of others in their appraised and worthy grace. What I am doing is to compact it all. This of me. Failing. To stop the nights previous flailing. The throwing of art around for anyone to see, and in the process I took my leave. My leave of the night precious for it, tho apparent, was not my present. It was the past. And beside me, as always we’re the reminders of thankfulness.

For n the madness of night I had nearly forgot the steadfast gratitude the day had brought to me. Family. They are by my side always. My books, familial as only words can. I take them in my palms and rejoice in them. I have today. I am worthy enough to note I need no appraisal. I need freedom from the judgements of those whom feel fit to do so, those toxic in the very wide solemn place. These are the true wastes. And they shall remain here in the very wide room, in that place of education for now it is time that I graduate.

The door opens and it is bright. My family smiles. It is time.

It is time.

The time is unknown. The place I’m going is unknown as well. But it is not a mystery, not with the truth of every word written and expressed. Family. My books. I gather these in bags and walk hand in hand as my sisters share the burden with me of carrying my bags with me. The time ticks on as we walk into the light out of this dreary place. We are the only ones to leave. We are the lucky ones.

11:11 AM

I awake. I have graduated from the fears of night. Once plagued by memories, I live in the present.

I look to the row of books before me and take stock in the words, the stoic knowledge of Wolf, of Dahl, and a book of family poems. My trinity. My family. The will and strength of my spirit.

As I blink in this day, I stretch out my palms for this at 11:11: a wish. And I do make one. And because it is for you my children I can share its contents.

At 11:11, I wish with palms outstretched. Treasure your love. Let your lives grow in this. Take stock in your voice and the people that aid in this expression. Make moments of those people your life. For if life is but of moments, I wish you a life most Momentous. And with this I walk into the light, the new day. I leave the auction. With the strength of you, with the power of this I walk to where I know not. But thanks to you, through the expression of my beautiful dreams, the pages of my life, through your grace, I have lived. I exist and now I must exit this.

I love you my children: a fact; irrevocable.

52/52 Momentous

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