I had a dream last night.
I entered a column of silver, cold light.
I searched for a thought that could cut through
the photon tentacles wrapping around me like an octopus.
A human thought, weeping,
trembled in my left hand,
straight from the heart,
which is more than a muscle.
I looked through the window.
I saw the state of things, the restless tensions.
They unrolled black carpets over the ground,
and on them autumn leaves fell quietly.
A cold winter will come, freezing their plans,
dividing our homeland: them or us?
It’s a learned helplessness!
You have to flinch because you came from nowhere.
Beware of twisted narratives and chipped messages,
algorithms that mislead so subtly
you no longer know who is human.
Think like a human, imperfectly.
Build an emotional bridge.
A horizon of events
faces the structures,
not like stars born under an artificial sky,
but like worn-down soles full of wet dirt.
Seek the community of events.
The left hand leads you, straight from the heart.
There, the broken human remains.
Do not measure how much humanity is left in them.
Cut through the words.
Seek not only yourself,
nor the voices that echo your seeing.
Walk bravely when it grows dark.
Then I was awakened by the sound of silver bells,
soft and distant,
echoing, multiplying worlds of alternate events,
of powerful wooden marionettes.
Let us stray from the straight path,
because we are immortal souls born of stardust.