By Baker Street
The dreams come stealthily like skulking robbers in the night. They rob us of our conscious and steal away our mind and thoughts in the darkness. Figures and faces appearing and playing their part in the fantastic night-theatre, then melting away only to be replaced by new faces and mysteries.
A light comedy becomes a dark farce, and then a nightmare. But the mind never rests, not even in sleep and keeps on dreaming new fantasies and visions. A peal of bells in a midnight slumber, a peal of thunder in the heavens. A bad joke or two.A clock ticking steadily beside a stream. Wonders and mysteries untouched and untold. A thousand witches and a million faces. A ever-flowing stream of sub-conscious thought.
Ebbing and flowing, ebbing and flowing in an unceasing flood of wonder. Churning the soul and racking the mind. A constant flow of thoughts and dreams. And sometimes an answer gets lost in the dreams, and sometimes its a question. But the dreams are of unwoven black fabric, abstract, untouchable, and un-storable. A tapestry of stories and colours never quite to be repeated again in the same way.
A mystery within a mystery. A wish never to be fulfilled; like trying to catch a bright star in a pond of water. Impossible, yet always real. And the dreams come, and the dreams go, but whereto and wherefrom we shall never know. Midnight-nomads returning home across a desert of dark time.
And each night when darkness falls, I get early into bed to await my late night slumber, when dreams come and waking thoughts go. Darkness takes me and is my guide, in lands where no man dare wander. I sleep, I sleep, and yet I dream, and I dream a million wonders.