Tag Archives: sleep

REM Free Write

9 Oct

I recognize myself outside of my self and every time this happens it feels like the first time, again. Rising Phoenix, courage and tenacity redefined daily– in you I see my curiosity: how elegant is your jaté, as you dance dawn across the silken twilight legacy of the omniscient harvest moon.

I recognize myself out of myself and every time my breath escapes me: in his eyes my spark sees her reflection; the orb of glowing noon dancing on the Willamette river; spitfire light wild and free playing trapeze with the wind and elliptical slip and swoon, graceful as the dawn of time, floating a simple song, writing its story as it makes its way.

Every time that I see myself clearly is recognizance, is the first time again: if I am not growing, I must be dead. Prism and white light, with your true and pure dynamism I see myself in you, through you. We share a what. We share the crystalline flakes of the purest substance of the what, it’s the mechanism through which our soul breathes. I was wondering if all humans are born with the same kernel of what. I think perhaps this is not the case.

The brain stem in stage four of sleep shoots off random neurons. Stage four of sleep must be achieved for the shooting spark of momentary life in the discharge of ideas because the body is in a state of temporary paralysis. I exist a millions of time I will never recall in life. What I am able to recall upon waking are often those firing that my mind makes psychological sense of. I Intuit that I can recall a memory of my dream in these cases because they are archetypal. They are recognized and registered, a reiteration in cloaked in mystery shrouded in the truth of recognizance without footprint, without real life experience rooted in the recognition.

And so i think it goes that souls and people who populate this earth and disappear as soon as they appear, a lifetime measured in breaths. Some people here contain secrets. They have souls that see the connections and intensities, the relationship and creativity, the mystery the awe the splendor the invisible the curvature the translucent multi-stratified layers and their consciousness gives re-creates the world again through their gaze, adding another dimension or 3 to a hologram surface. They recognize the structure and function of the smoke and mirrors and see through it to the blueprint behind the opaque wall. They recognize what they have yet to experience. They acknowledge the duality of opposing forces and see the people oscillating between the polar binaries like flint lit sparks from metal charged with heartbeats traveling according to the push and pull of opposing magnets. Feeling free and blind to the forces, un observable for omnipresent and powerful, rearranging the possibilities of cue balls allowing the cogs to feel free.

Some people see their place inside of the paradox and become the exception. To do so, one must surrender ones will to their predetermined destiny towards transformation and transmutation. The sensation of power in the feeling of free will is lost. But the ego no longer needs fuel. Power is food for the ego. Accepting ones moment of a life and the dual nature of the great divine orchestra performs a paradox in it of itself: the sacrifice of free will as a hole in the whole, one in a composite one, a rhizome in the universal flowering, liberates one beyond the capacity of those who believe they are free according to their will.

5 am. Still can’t sleep. really, really really hungry. store not open. can’t sleep. ill keep trying. this helped.

Dream Journal Free Write

22 Jul

Dream Journal Free Write

Last night I had a dream epiphany.

Over the course of my life, and underlying theme and realization across dreams is the appearance of a pen with red ink.

During my dream, I realized I was realizing this in a dream when I lifted the veil of dream illusion and saw a pen with red ink was writing it out. This scared the crap out of me. I felt like a puppet, where I was controlled unbeknownst to me throughout the course of my dream when I really focused ( and I still believe this to be true because it is true the pen with red ink is all over my waking sleep). My dream analysis in my dream is this was a split of my personality. The red ink pen was interpreted like a student. It is my self-criticism writing and expressing my deviations from ideal. Upon waking and reflecting on this dream, however, the God-fearing the epiphany inspired in me and puppetry sensation and what I saw was a glimpse at the predestination predetermination fate and collective unconscious level.

Before I feel asleep I was thinking about synchronicity: Carl Jung’s theory of acausal parallelism.

After the red ink dream.

Play this song while you read about the second dream. I listened to it on repeat yesterday, and when I turned it back on again today, the colors and spirit of the song bled into the same residual sentiment of my dream.

Bigger Than My Body [John Mayer, Heavier Things, 2003}

Dream #2: A narrative type of dream, again like two night ago, it stuck me as unusual because it was in the first person and a narrative.  The first dream of the night latent with symbols and thinking outside myself is more my typical dream. Or perhaps, the type of dream I awake with a memory of experiencing for that very reason. Regardless, my narrative dream:

Valentines Day. I was at the bay of a large body of water, a river I am supposing because of the bridge that crossed it was in the distance. A very foggy and cool crispy day, and yet, the sky was cloudless. Dreary grey February. Many people, my family and other city folk who filled the spaces, were hanging out at the bay. There was a sky writer. Valentines day. There was already some writing in the sky from one love to another, and seemingly out of nowhere, another daring  sky writer appeared. He wrote in humongous capital letters, dropping  hundreds of feet to assert the message in perfect script. He was writing my name: E. M. I. L…..suddenly, the earlier letters fogged together and he started to finish the name he was actually writing: Elana. The last letter was A. He plunged down from the top going to make the bottom line, and BOOM! The plane ignited on fire and exploded in front of all of the waterfront onlookers.  The planes torpedoed into the river and the pilot, tangled in his own parachute, splashed along with the smoldering hunk of metal and propellers.

One moment later, he appeared. Walking out of the water like his legs grew the length to match its depth, be began walking towards the shore, unscathed. I ran and rushed to meet him, asking if he needed anything, an ambulance, anything. A long procession of children carrying memorial plane scraps in two single filed lines were walking behind him (where did they come from?) and a posse of people from the sky writing company brushed me off:” Silly girl, we have procedure for this you know, he is fine, just an accident, and did you see the form of those letters, he almost finished, Perfect!” They were women and men with blonde hair and those cell phone that attach to your face hands free in grey formal business attire. I watched the process of children following them arise from the river, and I awoke.


18 Mar



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