I, too, found myself making a home of a place that called me alien.
I, like you, was uprooted without knowing why.
More than once, my name was taken, and my dreams turned nightmares.
Away from home and mine,
awake in a hostile land,
I dreamt me an infinite land.
Where you and all can live,
Dream, dreamer, dream.
Dream this dream that make us true:
A land of justice and love.
Dream with me the future true.
Dream, for the time of waking comes.
And in the wake world the high dreams are Law.
I find myself at the age of six, walking down a corridor in my grandmother’s house. I wake up before the sun rises and I stare at the ceiling. I watch the light of the morning dawn filter through the rooftop. I witness millions of tiny little worlds floating around, dancing with the sounds of birds and barking dogs, as crickets were just finishing their song and their life. I breathe in the air and though I do not see it, I know that these tiny little dots I see through the Sun beam rush to get into me, and I wonder how many worlds come into me and what happens to them. Do they die? Do they collide? Do they become? Do they not notice it? Do they become me? And if they become me, do they then wonder what happens to all of those little worlds floating around, riding the currents of the solar tides?
As your body lays in bed and your conscious grasp of your form dissolves into that dreamless state of the in-between, the Other Self can separate a little bit from you…you wake up with the memory of having done and spoken and thought..the dream you had was the experiences of the Other Self. The dream you had is the life of the Other Self.
Biased and flavored
are the best of sentiments,
like you and your laugh.
Brothers and sisters,
each a star among the stars.
We’re for God a host.
Death is our reward.
Because only who has lived
Has the right to die.
This experience seems endless. For no matter how many times I seem to dissolve myself, I keep coming back to this moment, to this space where I seem to be experiencing something. Yet nothing seems to ever be happening to me.
I am therefore in the midst of the Dreaming. I am the dreamer who realizes he is but a speck of imagination; a tiny particle of dust in the mind of an eternal sleeper. That he who sleeps, the God who slumbers, is for a tiny moment almost waking up, and in waking up gives birth to me and to this palace of its creation.
I know I am not as real as that which is not.
Yet I am the Going.
And from here to there, my consciousness threads this experience to that, this moment to the next.
I am the Going.
I am the dream eater.
I am perception.
I am the center of my experience.
I am the dreamer.
I am the dream.
“There are many things that can only be seen through eyes that have cried”
― Oscar A. Romero, martyred in San Salvador in 1980.
In those long silences of my exile, I learned nuances of silence: silences that were vast and deep like oceans, and stormy silences; silences that were short, like lightning; silences that were ominous; and silences that were threatening.
I learned nuances of silence that later I would learn to carry through speech. So that when I talk, I would pay little to no attention to the words I was saying, for I was not interested in communicating words. I was more interested in communicating spaces, pauses, silences—create perhaps rhythms and arrhythmias of stops and pauses.