A distant dream from a disturbed night of sleep;
The mind, now desperately trying to salvage all it can.
I grip it tight but it slips away like fine sand in my fist.
I realise the futility of the act and turn to attentively watch it fall apart hoping for something to be left, like a man sieving for gold.
I am left with something, a picture, right out of a postcard , but with footnotes from the subconscious mind.
A captor and his prisoner, a wooden log cabin in a landscape blanketed by snow, over looking a great white mountain spotted by snow covered pine trees .
I both know, and not know the prisoner and captor. A strong feeling suggesting that in what played out , I was both, switching from one to another.
I am sitting on top of the cabin the captor; now faceless, comes up and offers me a plate of cooked meat, the steam and smell rising off it still fresh in my mind.
I instinctively turn away and say no for I feel it is the cooked meat of a man that the captor had killed. He reads my mind and assures me that it’s not.
I do not know if I ever believed him or not.
Whether I consumed it or not,
but this is where my salvage ends.
On a tip so thin I wonder if the chasm after it will offer me serenity or madness.
Psychonaut Journal 