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A vision, from John Dreams
A man enters his mind - one of those for whom he watches and in whose existence he takes quiet pleasure. He sees the man's face and eyes open to him as they do not in life. John watches, remote but moved, and feels this as it resolves. When he has seen fully the man begins to become more distinct - more himself. It is not that he is less whole, or less clothed, but John can see inside him.
His skeleton is shaped - carved with figures, scenes and objects. It is something between filigree and bas relief, in black stone, intricate and infinitely complex. It is unmoving, but it has changed if his gaze returns to a humerus after sliding to and from a metacarpal bone. There are faces reflecting agony to reverie, through mourning, guardedness, and pleasure.
The man's heart is carved of alabaster as well as the dark stone and turns as on a spindle. The carvings there are on a larger scale. Sometimes these are crumbled, sometimes obscured by mist, sometimes clear, the edges honed to razor-sharpness.
John touches, in his vision, in tentative wonder and respect, but contact with the heart slices his finger open. It is protected, and the figures turn lithely to watch, in turn, the richly coloured tendrils of his blood drip from rib to rib.
He touches the skeleton and feels life beating through it. Fear, and strength, and longing. It is beautiful, perfect and heart-breaking. John's control is non-existent, drowned in fever, and he weeps. He weeps for the other man, for recognition of this in himself, because it is just a vision, though he will remember.
Cleansed by tears, forced to turn and relax, he comes to sleep, and dream.
A man enters his mind - one of those for whom he watches and in whose existence he takes quiet pleasure. He sees the man's face and eyes open to him as they do not in life. John watches, remote but moved, and feels this as it resolves. When he has seen fully the man begins to become more distinct - more himself. It is not that he is less whole, or less clothed, but John can see inside him.
His skeleton is shaped - carved with figures, scenes and objects. It is something between filigree and bas relief, in black stone, intricate and infinitely complex. It is unmoving, but it has changed if his gaze returns to a humerus after sliding to and from a metacarpal bone. There are faces reflecting agony to reverie, through mourning, guardedness, and pleasure.
The man's heart is carved of alabaster as well as the dark stone and turns as on a spindle. The carvings there are on a larger scale. Sometimes these are crumbled, sometimes obscured by mist, sometimes clear, the edges honed to razor-sharpness.
John touches, in his vision, in tentative wonder and respect, but contact with the heart slices his finger open. It is protected, and the figures turn lithely to watch, in turn, the richly coloured tendrils of his blood drip from rib to rib.
He touches the skeleton and feels life beating through it. Fear, and strength, and longing. It is beautiful, perfect and heart-breaking. John's control is non-existent, drowned in fever, and he weeps. He weeps for the other man, for recognition of this in himself, because it is just a vision, though he will remember.
Cleansed by tears, forced to turn and relax, he comes to sleep, and dream.
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