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v u l v a l i c i o u s

dream worlds in sand
2012-07-04 // 12:29 a.m.

Protection. Exploration. Patience.

We are in the forest. This clearing, our clearing, the only one we know: this is what we stand for. There is water. Bread that was made, broken and shared. You say it is the body, and we believe. We pass it between us an breathe in the truth we have created.

A swordswoman guards us. She watches the woods and waits for the next sound to fall. Water is drawn behind her, passes behind her. She will not sleep until she is sure she can keep it safe.

Meanwhile, the queen commands. Stirs the pot, makes the home. Rules. But see her dress is not as fine as it once appeared. She is worn around the edges. We share this space, somewhat afraid of what will come next. Unsure if the movement that we glanced from atop the highest hill in our clearing bears us ill or good.

In this wood there is dark and there is light. We are in between. Passing tales between us as we walk. Each with a talisman, each of us protected by what we have and what we know. Each of us coming to know more as we walk.

There is no path to our journey. The woods ahead are thick, and we carry little with us. No weapons, just wishes. One left, now. One unspent token to get us home or away, or to feed us an unforgettable meal if death comes calling.

We have a key that unlocks something important: a door, a book, another world. For the moment that is unimportant. We do not talk of what the key can do, simply keep it there as a reminder of the promise of what is to come.

The tower is our guidance. It speaks to us of family that is chosen, not born. We knit ourselves closer together and struggle forward, hoping for light. From the east, the sound of ticking grows louder and stronger. We do not know if we should turn away or press forward. At times we do both.

Wood holds and wood binds. We are not wood so much as memory. We surpass the bands of the thickest trunks, and as the years pass time wraps itself 'round us again and again.

In this place we have always been, we will continue to be. We wait. They will come, they will walk or they will fly. But they will come.

Grey, the sky. Grey, the early light of the morning. We are there no matter what. And time moves, slow and slow. Time holds and time binds.

But in the deep heart of the forest something warms. Deep purple light. A pulse that thrums through the night sky, opening the windows and doors into the minds of those that dwell in the wood.


In this wood, we have watchers, explorers, dreamers. Time, and time, and time again. The power of threes. She tells me this is important, that it is on the edge of integrating. The heart in the middle is left untouched and unmentioned. I had forgotten it was there until now.


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