House of Discarded Dreams: is it like an island for misfit thoughts? A symbolic wasteland of discarded mental apparitions, floating, indistinct, a place that is liminal in space, a place between spaces? This house is a borderland house, a travelling house, a ship house, a home house. The house tells stories in it’s wood, has words carved into the stairs, and the words make sentences, make rhythms, they are myth words. Tumbling story words, told by grandmother words.
Ancient sentient words, with a culture and a history all their own. All things carry the stories inside of them, even an energy construct made from all the left over emotional residue in phone conversations. This is a story whose language is that of dreams, but not all dreams, no, no. These are the dreams forgotten on waking. These are the dreams that hold keys, secrets to inner harmonies, and when you wake up, you struggle to write it down, remember! Remember! Remember!
But once the book is set down, the dreams slip away, and you feel like you’ve lost something important. Something worth clinging onto, something worth saving and changing yourself for. But once those covers are closed: snap. It’s just paper in your hand, like skin, covered in messy tendrils of ink that seem to form words, when looked at up close.
This was part of the blog carnival for Ekaterina Sedia’s House of Discarded dreams. Check for me entries at the main page, here: