A Bad Dream Is Like The Past, Just Like A Bad Dream.

This is all a dream but it is also just the remnants of the dream I wish I might have had. I dreamed many a deep and intricate thing last night and I said it all to myself, quietly. Letting it seep out in serious sentences. There were so many things falling from the sky. Those things were things we all knew but couldn't explain. They were parts of museums, things I'd assumed to be dinosaurs. There were dinosaurs, dangers. There were things which fell from the sky and scared me, things which I didn't understand, which I couldn't explain. And I was going to fix things; I was going to make them what they ought to have been.

There is a dialect; the city has a language. The city speaks it's language and those who listen write about the language that the city speaks. They write what the city would have written if it were something else, something more real than a place. I know that places waver, they shrug themselves off sometimes, as if they aren't really as real as they are. It's just the same with people, always pretending to be things more solid, more structured, then they actually have the ability to be.

Carnivale is over and it is absurd. People are left to dangle and dance around and you, you know that they will never be anyone, that their lives are finished just because someone has finished writing them. But, I suppose that insane degree of incompleteness makes you want to finish what's been started even more. It doesn't make you want to say, "Oh, he is who he is." And we spent all night being asked who he is. And really, I suppose, the question is, do we know? Do we know who he is just because we know what he does?

Do we seek to find something that is lost to the intricacies of storytelling? Must we just fill in the middle and not think about the end? The end is so much what it's meant to be. How do we know that people will understand that their ends are often predictable? Megan predicted it. She said just so much was so. And Slippy has been reading it; does that make it real? Perhaps I ought to be someone I'm not? Perhaps I ought to be a character. If only I had a huge hall to strut about in. If only I could be someone, someone not myself. But I suppose I have been just that. I suppose I have been playing the game.

If only I could live all the things I know are being lived by others. I suppose it might be enough to know that I have made something, that I have also helped someone make something, that all I do is worth something. I suppose it is true that the words quiver in my eyesight, they sink into my belly and become the most beautiful of breaths. I do think the things that I think I ought to think when I wake up and see the things I have seen.

I hear about psychic dreams and I wonder if my dreams directly dictate what my day will be. These dreams of last night have fallen gracefully into another's arms and have become something I didn't even know they would be. Only because of the fact that I am aware of them. I suppose I am terribly dictated by the way someone else creates who they are based vaguely, and only slightly so, on who I am. But, can I? I suppose I don't know, yet. I must wait for what echoes through the Great Hall; I must wait for what falls from the fingers of he who speaks, he who says what is true. Or, perhaps, I will just wait for anything.