How To Surf Dreams.

Concerning the Manipulation of Dreams & More.

Writing feels like that last shelter before the storms breaks through.  Even this writing, which is now (and will) pierce who I am – fully an effortlessly.

It began once, a time long past.  A youth complaining of boredom while harboring in likely TV shelters; so comfortable where time is sinuous and soaking.  Countless hours spent flicking through haphazard yet sometimes seemingly life-defining moments.  Actual moments, if not for their necessary accordance with previous and following movements, all stacked up, as filtered and directed as televised things may be.  Things told over and over again within shortly slightly differing tangibles.

After years spent, I began to discover that I no longer cared which particular channel my box was on, whether I was watching a program or commercial, or even whether the volume was on or off.  I began to suspect that TV had become a source for my half-faltering mind.  A mind tugged yet stilled by the even insinuation of self-saturating knowledge.

Eventually, upon this realization, I would turn on the TV (while being increasingly heedless of channel or volume) with a more direct intent of letting my mind simmer in the escape of those often daunting hours that arise with the sun;….beautifully willed distraction.                                                                                    

  -A life as dubbed in craftless apparition.

A storm was brewing, and this Hollywood shelter as it were, was becoming increasingly less practical. It’s thought-washing role for myself all too apparent.  Moments adding up, being spent predicting which way a plot would turn, who would die first; shallow predictive thoughts teetering in their annoyance.

This was a safe haven mostly destroyed by its’ own belligerence, yet it took a complete change of environment to complete its’ wavering tale.  Korea.  The wealth of a new country provided the resources to erect something much more permanent, until which, a coinciding and advancing catalyst had been mostly preliminary experimentation.

-Books, fantasy most of all, were to be my ticket to an all immersive and fantastical new surface.

Yet, it took a final push to get me to virgin waters. Hiking in the mountains of Korea, I took a fall resulting in torn muscles and fractured bones in my left leg.  After the hospital, I was stranded at my apartment for months few but revolutionary. These months broke the temporal path of my life.  These months significant change began. No available comfort of TV or internet.

A sort of binge reading began which led to dream exploration as reckless and momentous as a surfer in the midst of his wave – to the sort of moments which are as unreachable and mystical as their own briefness. 24 hours spent here; there, with interludes only as necessary as gathering ramen on crutches and a creaking leg brace.  Entire weeks really, enveloping into continuous worlds where you can; wherever I could.  Each percentage of time used to take me to an exponentially deeper dive into a wealth of worlds.   There was as complete lack of alternate external stimuli; my family across the world, me the only foreigner in isolated army town; this was to become my craft turned page by page at the Northern edge of Korea.  A Game of Thrones,  A Wheel of Time, A Wizard of Earthsea; the exact time and place of me began to matter less.  Dreams began to take on their new form as vast as oceans slightly conceivable.  I began to wake with righteous ringing in my head, undulations of adventure barely perceivable; and emotions incredibly and vividly content.

This was a reason to write.  A feeling I’ve never heard spoken of.  This feeling I began to have upon waking which lacked the usual accompaniment of adjectives as for description.  A paradoxical feeling; as if my mind were incredibly light and heavy in the same moment.  A deeply rooted joy causing my steps to be tempted with jumps, as if I had explored entire worlds in a day of reality, having accomplished more in the spread of night then in the entirety of a life.  Imagine… I had begun to take in so many words, so deeply anchored in so many worlds, that the mind began to float; anchorless.  Dreams became Wind.  So that upon transitioning consciousness the mind has been fed so many half created ideas wrapped in half created worlds that it begins to take on a rampant cause in sorting through and defining things in only the dreams still mysterious ways.

I was, and now am a surfer, yet the crash is impending, the wave temporary in its’ curving embrace, the storm threatening it its’ cyclical manner.  Even this shelter finds its end.  Still missing itself in how you got there, as dreams are as unsubstantial as the thousands of pages you’ve turned.

And now we come to writing which is so piercing.  It still seems a thing which is avoidant of something else.  An ambitious structure placed on a soul so tired of entertaining conceptions; especially love-like. A quest seemingly if doomed to fail.

(Hobbies in their modernity, it seems,  have become hollowed out shelters whose wondering purpose acts a shield from a storm which is the increasingly limitless mind; knowledge now being free, infinite, and rapid in its' intake.)