the dream is dreaming itself, we are its subjects
the mysterious writing of life, its ellusive quest
an inflationary expansion was deleting its traces
zero degree of consciousness in a moving aliveness
strange rhythms around and strange qualia
there were attributes without letters at first
before a predicate turned into subject
life othering itself into much more in its own image

life was chatting with itself before the knower and the known
spinning the seeds of time, change: its true substance
I am you and you are me but  we need
a symmetry break for the dawn of mind, the other of the body

so much was already done since life was rehearsing for eons its scripture, forms of habit, viable conventions
processing its otherness relentlessly
mind is this forest-creature exulting, hiding, defending,
breaking down, screaming, expulsing, recomposing, sprouting light and lightning

the very first thoughts traversed the barrier of vibrant void
their binding a translation of a body in time, a future storyteller
pure movement the nature of space, the wonder of above and bellow
the first qualia, tension and intensity, an unstructured  flow of frequencies, a cascade of warmth, fullness, emptiness,  
a body discovering herself, her unbearable, her rapture, the feeling of being

the centre is everywhere expanding, accelerating a creative chaos
thinking was just waking in the  field of a dreaming body
thoughts needed to outgrow slowly their skin of imaginary beings

then again and again
dreaming keeps decomposing the already thoughts trapped in their echo chambers, their networked cocoons circle our certainties
a thought needs to die to create another, a sacrifice to the god of the unknown
oh how many deaths we have already died recomposed only by dreaming, the solvent from which reality is born

intensively your body is translating feeling into dreaming,
extensively the mind is dislocating dreaming into thinking  
whille a distant star is crushing itself,  
love rehearses its gravity,
death is saturated by its own dismay

perhaps poetry is this witness of silent cosmogonies

Durf te vliegen,
Durf te vallen,
Durf te vechten,
Durf te dromen.

Soms kan vallen zijn als vliegen,
Is vechten winnen en verliezen tegelijk,
Dagen met kleur en dagen in grijs,
Een leven vol uitersten,
Laat angst geen grenzen stellen,
Droom, doe en leef.

How many dreams,
how many wild and uncompleted schemes,
how many words
and the infant ghosts of poems I will never write
do I leave on my pillow at the end of every night

A yearning swallowed softly,
In the wake of reality
Never dared to be dreamt -
It fades away, leaving whispers behind.

They follow me as I work, and
Gaze wistfully out of the misty window -
As I lay in my bed, tired
Dreaming softly of worlds (not my own).

Those whispers distract, daze,
Destroy - destroy my life, built so
Tirelessly with my sweat and despair.
How could I throw away all of this,
When I worked so hard to get it?

Those whispers, they answer -
You worked for it, yes,
but you never
Wanted it.
What is it that you want?

And my traitorous mind, it whispers
(no, screams) back -
Dew-dropped meadows, sunsets that
Burn like fallen gods;
Views that steal my breath, suffocate
Until no thoughts remain.

Awe that makes me breathless, paralyzed -
A beauty so vast it cannot be
Understood.
Dawns that rise with me, falling away
Like old skin, the sun raw
On my transformed self.

Oh, I know what I want.

I had a dream last night,
Where I was singing Christmas carols,
With Bob Ross.
He didn't know the words,
To "Silent night."