THE DREAM pretentious cosmic picture


  The man in the boat was oh-so-tired. The waves were gently rocking him. The vast majority of his companions were fishermen, and could manage the boat. He felt his eyelids close, and gave himself in to the dream...

  Silence and light, then he observed drifting dust motes in front of him, where he was sitting. Looking closer at the dust motes he saw they were more like a snowflakes, whirls of light in double spirals for the most part.

  One in particular held his attention. It grew under his scrutiny. He began to perceive the individuals points of light that made up the drifting mote, which now looked more like a whirlpool of light. Most were red in color, a minority yellow, and a tiny few were blue. There was an intense, hungry nothingness that drew other things into it at the center of the whirlpool. The dots of light grew fewer and fewer as they progressed from the center. Some clustered in great clumps, and many of the dots were double or even triple.

  One dot, yellow in color, now grew under his casual scrutiny. A single dot, without any other glowing dots paired with it, it was situated two thirds of the way from the center of the drifting mass, in one of two arms of the spiral.

  Vaguely he grew aware of still smaller dots, spinning around the glowing yellow dot...but you could only see them by the reflected light of the glowing dot. There were nine major objects, and as he concentrated, there were things still smaller in between.

  The third microdot was a lovely blue. Regarding it further, it grew until it became a ball. There were smaller patches of green which were stationary, and swirling masses of white which were constantly moving.

  Like that small white mass atop the smaller mass of blue inside the larger green mass...

  "Master! Wake up, or we'll drown!"

  The hands of the fishermen were shaking him, drawing him back into muted senses, limited perceptions, a prison of pain...yet there was something there that the infinite lacked.

  He got up and walked to the heaving deck. His disciiples were amazed that the massive storm had not wakened him. The thunder cracked awesomely, the waves were high, the wind clutched and chilled. Lightning lit up a face that recalled a insignificantly tiny swirling white mass.

  "Peace. Be still."

  His words were not loud, but the wind died. The waves started to subside. The clouds started to seperate, like a pack of dogs at their master's voice.

  The light that filled the skies as the clouds left illuminated his face--the face of a paradox. He was the linchpin of eternity--but a paradox still.

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Copyright © 1997 Al Schroeder