Dreamtime

I have spent most of the last few days sleep­ing, doing only the essen­tials to stay alive, immo­bi­lized with fatigue. The opaque heat of the week has not helped to resist the weight of the dark ener­gies that grav­i­tate around me.

In the sky, the plan­ets form squares and oppo­si­tions that con­fuse the issue. Sat­urn, the con­ser­v­a­tive, gazes from afar at Uranus, who wants to break every­thing, and the arbiter is Mars manip­u­lat­ing both. My thin skin absorbs the scent. It is time for me to take a vaca­tion ; my body seems to know more about the state of things than I do because it does every­thing in slow motion.

So I often close my eyes. It is nec­es­sary to lis­ten, open one’s sens­es, observe the dirt that accu­mu­lates at the win­dow of one’s mind, sit down to bet­ter walk one’s way, and attempt a return towards what would be to rediscover.

The Abo­rig­ines of Aus­tralia explained the source of their exis­tence by the Dream­time, a real­i­ty exist­ing before the cre­ation of our plan­et, its moth­er galaxy, and its epiphe­nom­e­na par­ents. Every­thing would have been Spir­it before it start­ed to dream and to cre­ate. This myth can be found every­where, even in the the­o­ret­i­cal trench­es of some physicists.

Accord­ing to Joseph Chilton Pearce, the child would also inhab­it this world, grad­u­al­ly extract­ing itself from it, towards the sev­enth year, to final­ly incar­nate Rea­son and its body. Among ancient peo­ple, how­ev­er, there was no ques­tion of break­ing with the Dream­ing but using the new pow­ers of the intel­lect to nav­i­gate toward recon­struct­ed dreams. The ancient soul con­tin­ued to dream in an almost per­ma­nent ecsta­t­ic state.

To keep one’s child­like heart does not mean to return to the reck­less­ness of hap­pi­ness, but to work tire­less­ly to regain one’s Icarus feath­ers and to attempt the absolute jour­ney of life until the wings that weigh us down catch fire and plunge us into the caul­dron and fall of a new Knowl­edge that is con­stant­ly being renewed.

How can I be sure of what I am doing ? How do I rec­on­cile this dream with my pro­fes­sion­al respon­si­bil­i­ties ? I live in two worlds, because like every­one else, I need my fan­tasies and my pay­check. Is this where my weari­ness comes from ? Should­n’t we all be singers of our own potential ?

I close my eyes, sur­round my aware­ness of this state, pro­vide it with the nec­es­sary wood, dip my hands in cold water, splash it on my face. Wicked wisdom.