Frozen Dream

The sun shines differently here now. Gone is the soft golden haze, the muted light which left its glowing kiss upon the earth and enriched her colors, reddened her shadows, and dulled their sharp edges. The atmosphere has thinned, pulled back, and has harshened the gauzy film that once served as a marker, a reminder that one was, indeed, living on a dream world, a tranquil, lovely, living world, spinning gracefully about its motherly star–living, instead of clinging desperately to a cold, dead rock that was hurtling through empty space like a comet gone mad.

The Absolute Truth of existence is kind to no one, to no world, to no time. It is indifferent, oblivious to the cares of man, and it holds no softness, does no favors. The frigid disregard of its encroaching emptiness, like the void of outer space, is a dream eater, a killer of compassion, a strangler of empathy. What use has a block of ice for empathy? For compassion? For dreams? Where does Truth live, in these ideas? These are trifling, human things, full of flaws and contradictions and pretty lies. They have no place, serve no purpose, find no moorings in the deep freeze of the sprawling raw darkness. All that is living and warm and gentle will be swept away, as all is swept away in the path of a great glacier’s descent. All shall sleep, buried beneath the unrelenting hardness of ice, until the warm light of Dream returns to melt away the gelid borders, bit by bit, to blunt the razor blade of Absolute Truth, and to remind us that we are, indeed, humans–soft, vulnerable, imperfect, alive–and not dead pillars of heartless logic.

The Dream will thaw, and live, again.

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