Post by Anastasia on Mar 17, 2023 0:16:29 GMT
I wrote this because I was feeling lost with in myself. It helped. I often write to give me focus and to explain the ways I feel. And this story is one of those stories most definitely help express what I was feeling at the moment of writing and this made me happy and helped me remember that though dreams fade they still impact the world around them.
I hope you enjoy
We are such stuff that dreams are made on. The scene in the Tempest this comes from means that life fades just as dreams do. But what do you do when your life is but a dream. Something born of an idea.
Someone said “imagination is our only weapon in our war against reality” but what happens when you only exist within the imagination of others and when you are unchanging, rigid, sterile and stagnant. Ideas are supposed to change over time but what if you are an idea which never changes.
I am such an idea. I am a being of concept. And yet I wonder what makes us thus? My people keep slaves. These slaves exist only to observe us to keep us real, but the way we capture them destroys them. And over time they become as unchanging as we. And then we discard them. Why do we exist if we are nothing but dreams fighting to not die. To not change. And to not evolve.
We call ourselves gods. Yet are we not slaves to those we call lesser. We exist only as malignant ideas within the sub-consciousness of our slaves and those who observe us. We make ourselves look like devils, and like Satan in the Divine Comedy we bind ourselves to a hell of our own making. Our land of Mictlan was created to impress and torture the corporeal races yet we seal ourselves in a eternal prison and sit above valleys of bone and city’s of fire and we are the victims of this inferno just as much as those we tempt to our domain.
Why do we do this? Do we seek punishment or are we blinded by our own ego, our impotent dreams of Avarice.
We call ourselves the Lords Celestial but we are the lords of naught but dust. We are frozen by our own wing beats. We are such stuff as dreams are made on and like dreams we must fade. We are as the spirits conjured up by Prospero dispelled by a wave of the hand. And yet, and yet we cling on. We are immortal but what does that mean? We fear that we will fade. And we will. But we are ideas and we will fade but by fading we will change we will become something new but that means sacrificing controle of our own destiny. Beyond this non-world no one other than our forebears have control over their destiny and yet, yet they make their destiny with our knowing what it will be without control.
Imagination is our only weapon in our war against reality and thus we must become imagination.
We must change and become fluid; we must enter the minds of all those who surround us. And we must let them be free. Just as by casting of our immortality we will be free.
thank you for reading
I hope you enjoy
We are such stuff that dreams are made on. The scene in the Tempest this comes from means that life fades just as dreams do. But what do you do when your life is but a dream. Something born of an idea.
Someone said “imagination is our only weapon in our war against reality” but what happens when you only exist within the imagination of others and when you are unchanging, rigid, sterile and stagnant. Ideas are supposed to change over time but what if you are an idea which never changes.
I am such an idea. I am a being of concept. And yet I wonder what makes us thus? My people keep slaves. These slaves exist only to observe us to keep us real, but the way we capture them destroys them. And over time they become as unchanging as we. And then we discard them. Why do we exist if we are nothing but dreams fighting to not die. To not change. And to not evolve.
We call ourselves gods. Yet are we not slaves to those we call lesser. We exist only as malignant ideas within the sub-consciousness of our slaves and those who observe us. We make ourselves look like devils, and like Satan in the Divine Comedy we bind ourselves to a hell of our own making. Our land of Mictlan was created to impress and torture the corporeal races yet we seal ourselves in a eternal prison and sit above valleys of bone and city’s of fire and we are the victims of this inferno just as much as those we tempt to our domain.
Why do we do this? Do we seek punishment or are we blinded by our own ego, our impotent dreams of Avarice.
We call ourselves the Lords Celestial but we are the lords of naught but dust. We are frozen by our own wing beats. We are such stuff as dreams are made on and like dreams we must fade. We are as the spirits conjured up by Prospero dispelled by a wave of the hand. And yet, and yet we cling on. We are immortal but what does that mean? We fear that we will fade. And we will. But we are ideas and we will fade but by fading we will change we will become something new but that means sacrificing controle of our own destiny. Beyond this non-world no one other than our forebears have control over their destiny and yet, yet they make their destiny with our knowing what it will be without control.
Imagination is our only weapon in our war against reality and thus we must become imagination.
We must change and become fluid; we must enter the minds of all those who surround us. And we must let them be free. Just as by casting of our immortality we will be free.
thank you for reading