On the thesis

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My dreams have been swirling in cold awakenings that I can still taste in the alpine trees when I drive up the mountain at each sunrise.

I dreamt that I was warm on a sandstone face, a thousand feet in the air. Around me only blue sky and wispy cloud formations. I was hanging by a harness, or a quickdraw, unafraid for a moment perhaps, until I realized the magnanimity of the scale. Then she was there. Everything was shining in yellow. A small bump of her growing baby visible under her pink skin. I wanted to tell her I was doing alright, but it seemed to be unsaid, or unneeded. Or maybe we were not able to speak in the same dialect. He was there too, somewhere else. On a sailboat? I was testing him. Testing the waters around myself too perhaps like a curious child. The words I pick up during these days seem to collect and spill over into each other. Terra Incognita, Theology. The ship of Theseus. Amarillo, Anaranjado, Durado. I am not certain any of these things relate to one another. Perhaps not in this world anyway. The music that has been arriving to me is filled with a trusted melancholy, like an old companion…like violins and saxophones and how the black ravens seem to fly alongside my car in the mornings, and I am grateful for the respite from understanding my own reality for the time.

Again I have had dreams where I must repair someone. A gentle man’s hand was sewn with red thread in the shape of a guitar string sequence, and the people were asking me to explain to him the severity of leaving the rotting strings inside of his hand. He was telling me that it was alright. That he was alright. To pull the strings would be to undo the spell he had sung into them, and that he would like to keep them.

Maybe all this ever will mean is that I would like to keep these words, and these days, for a bit. Even if they may not hold weight. Even if they wisp like the clouds in my dreams.

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