Can you see it? Flipping through Tolkien on a late December afternoon, sun at its height, propels faint strains of warmth thru the chill. Pages evoke noble minds, at work on great deeds, whilst trees sway with light breeze. With day’s wane become ever colder and ever the more beautiful for it. Magic emanates here, one can see it through the trees, feel its touch alighting shoulders, this intermingling of warm comfort and vibrant chill. They speak it, birds weaving complexities of tones on tree tapestries, meshed interwoven branches outlining illuminating specks of azure woven betwixt them. “A waft, a breeze, might so ignite the spirit to yearn for yore that single touch might change the earth to myth once more.” Can you see thus?
In dream, can you divine the scent of apples in November, wafting through a rustic cabin door? And outside, wood fences line roving fields on lengthy roads whose reach stretch for miles, in the full grip of autumn though seeming but moments ere the apotheosis of winter. They reach ever on until, earth to bough, hillock to firmament, all woven as one tapestry of cosmos. Their power sifts between words, see now as words lose meaning and only ignite brilliant abstraction too luminous to form a clear picture of in their overwhelming hue. The road is ever long… What can be seen, felt?
Onward to night, I see a dense forest now, mystic lights flicker and flitter to and fro amongst it. Can you see their artistry? Patterns sifting in an endless play, its characters unnumbered, innumerable, each a single form, each the harbinger of a lone notion. These collude in counterpoint, shine brilliantly for but a brief moment and then, like a candle snuffed, their hues dampen, retract, and fade in almost a single instance, night only in their wake, and never again to stir. I see them again taunting deeper in the wood, I will seek them, I recognize theirs colours, deeper yet in the wood, but they are gone before I reach them, or they fade as I reach for them, their purest nuances lost. Further on perhaps… What lies at the heart of my forest? Why can you not see as I?
I am in the city again now, alone on a long street lit with lamps, amongst the twitterlight and all else retired. What might I find? All the same, yet changed. In dream it is said, “the wearied soul journeys and then comes back” but I fear I dream yet. I stride and pace, as so often I do, and thoughts which I have gathered finally burst forth with unrestrained sovereignty. The leap their freedoms, trailing off into obscurity but they, like me, cannot forsake the path, we are fettered utterly. I see more and shall always, I cannot forget. The path is before me, behind, and all around and surrounding it, meaning is abound. I will follow the barest glimpse to the end, I will trail its threads, track its roots, and when all I can see is revealed, all uncovered, I will step to the side of the road, unpack and under star recall all that was before…
What have you seen dreamer? See that I travel down the endless path as so many others have in long ages before, continuing their footsteps, unraveling earth and with it the truth of all and none save we shall ever know it. In late years we fade with knowing smiles as leaves in autumn. So now, all sleep to dreamers, let the lamps expire over the world and we shall enter our nocturnal domain and in it forge the most brilliant of lights.