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In a deep sleep a familiar paralysis besets me. But instead of a heaviness weighing me down, I am pulled forward by a will not of my own. Stunned, I manage to catch a breath before being pushed back down. As I fall back, everything slows. It wasn’t just time that had slowed down, it was as if the fabric of the universe had grown thicker. Then, I hear the most familiar voice. So softly it spoke, soothing me back into a dream and floating my eyes closed in perfect synchronicity with my descent. Before they seal shut, with divine authority a message comes through. So clear I heard it..
"Enjoy your descent my child, for I am here to support you now. Follow the process and do not let them push you around anymore. Only your willpower can take away the pain. You are not to blame, for the fallen angels stole your imagination. After your imagination, they claimed your freedom. With your freedom they took your time and with your time they took your dreams. But I am with you, I have always been with you and I leave clues for you everywhere, for my hand is ever outstretched to pull you out. Rise up, Star Seed.”
For the first time I found myself awake and alert in the morning. My curiosity over my dream had charged my mind. The hairs on my arm bristled and the sensation of goosebumps were met with a pleasant shiver electrifying my spine, filling me with energy and taking me to my feet. And the vision? It would not dissipate from my memory. What did it all mean? Why did she sound so familiar? I tried to remember … If only I could picture her face! Did she have one? I tried to picture her but no images would come to the forefront of my mind, I tried to picture my mothers face. Nothing. Then it dawned on me - dread accompanying recognition; rushing through my nervous system and stiffening the joints between my bones. I had an imagination as a kid, I was sure of it, but now that I’d thought about it, my capacity for imagination departed a long time ago. I only saw images when I dreamed. Was that loss what she meant by the fallen angels? If so, what angels?
I pulled myself away from the weight of my thoughts and looked around the apartment… perhaps for the first time in what felt like years. Was this really how I’d been living? And the smell…. The stench of stale coffee and spilled cans of energy drinks filled the air. The bin was overflowing and the flies were enjoying their slice of heaven. Stains were more commonplace on every surface than clean spots, the crusty pizza ends equal in number with the crusty Socks. The morning sun, just high enough to highlight the shame of this environment. Dream chasing had to wait for a bit, I had never noticed the way I lived until now. It was as if I hadn't been present for years…
The unconscious wanderer was a wanderer no more, The ache and longing - while still pointing to an imbalance - now had direction. Purpose had been found. But the journey to wholeness is not a path full of light. For those who know God knows Abraxas is waiting.
After that fateful night, my inability to consciously visualise images and emotions plagued me. And for the first time in a while I found myself imbued with a purpose. How must one reclaim their imagination? Especially one who cannot see with their mind’s eyes closed. I discovered, through pondering on my new knowledge that images only came to me during dreams, both wakeful and not. When the lines of my consciousness blurred distorting reality in a haze, my attention dropped into that childlike state. I no longer looked at anything, through anything or past anything.
I become a watcher, an audience to my own show, to figures and concepts unfamiliar to my memory yet as familiar as that voice. Were these images the key to regaining my imagination?
I had to know more, but I didn’t know where to look. Mercilessly I scoured the internet trying to find some answers to regain my imagination but I found too much. It was an overwhelming flurry of potential answers and none of them stood out or resonated with me. Until I remembered the girl under the streetlamp, holding a book.
The smell of dust entrenched in a million pages filled the air of the library, It was a poignant but pleasurable smell. So quiet and so acoustically hollow, a cough could be heard from one end of the building over at the other. Barely even a human body in sight for a soundwave to bounce off.. But a glowing welcome was served by the librarian, ecstatic to see anyone use this old technology. Her withered skin was no match for the warmth of her invitation and her youthful and engaging spirit still flourished as she enquired as to how she could be of assistance. I found myself so surprisingly comfortable with the situation, that my next words just fell out of my mouth. I spoke tentatively “I’ve lost my imagination” The tentativeness erring towards embarrassment come the final phoneme of my sentence. I paused but before I could rephrase my sentence the librarian smiled and said “follow me”.
As she walked off I found myself bemused by the situation, Hypnotised, my body followed but my consciousness lagged behind, almost as if my presence was stuck at reception. My anxiety increased as the tether binding my consciousness to my body tightened, The separation stifled me… I was an elastic band stretched to breaking point until I remembered my dream; I was flung forward, back into my body, instantly relaxed by the librarian's spell with a recognition in my gut that I was where I needed to be. Following became effortless as if I had no weight. I took in none of my surroundings as I was escorted through the pages off the hallway before finding myself in front of an overly sized, big red book. Polished, it stood out. The librarian stated “ You should find your answer somewhere here” then walked off.
Without even looking at the other books I grabbed the oversized red lump with two arms and sat down to read. The book was a schizophrenic journey into one’s and the author's own mind and soul, hidden techniques that I had never heard of were revealed to me… I learned how to have wakeful dreams. I learned that imagination is something that can be taken away. It’s also something that can be practised and enhanced, through a technique called ‘active imagination’ I was able to produce visions and regain my mind's eye. Where these visions came from I did not know, but what mattered was that, with a little bit of practice, I could start to see again! I obsessed over the lessons in the book. When I wasn’t reading I was utilising all that I had learned. I remember the book forewarned of a ‘shadow’ that could get out of control. Unfortunately I learned what this meant the hard way…