As I return to the dream, I regularly recall the concepts endemic to this realm, and this one alone. The true magic of a dream, of course, is that you hardly recognize that you are dreaming. Once I appear in this dream world, it is as if I never left such immature fancy behind, and this life was all that I have ever known.
I open my eyes when I am asleep, consider my past, and I understand every relevant detail—in all of its inane unreality—and think it a trite foible to consider. What of the fact, that light bends whenever I find purchase betwixt my talons, or that rock can seem as fragile, and malleable as volcanic glass? Why trouble yourself in the minutia regarding that peculiar scent that none can place, but seems wholly indistinct from the warmth of my matron's breast; at the fledgling ages?
The scent seems to emanate from all directions, at once; never nearing the source of that perplexing aroma, and not even drawing further away. It is both homely, and robust—sharp, but diffuse—all too familiar, yet one of a kind. It seeps into every atom of my being, and threatens to whisk me away into the comforting melody of a blissful rest. If I lose focus, I can easily fall into that sweet reverie.
I want to believe that this is the only world that I have ever known, and that the true world with all its harsh limitations is a failure of imagination. What pedestrian lout would create a world with such concrete laws for force, and gravity, and light, and time? What a failure of imagination it is to see a wall, and not have innate power over its material composition, density, weight, and texture? Why can I not decide to randomly imbue this column with the simple capacity to form words, and discuss its role within the makeup of the world. It seems to me, in that instant, that our so-called "reality" is the lesser world to call home; with all its thoughtless limitations.
In my slumber, I think it a much better place to call home.
It is only when I wake that I realize what a terrible place that would be, as nothing really changes, in truth. Because I am capable of doing mind-bending feats of reality shifting, and infinite capacity for creativity, I inevitably find what I deem to be the most perfect of surroundings, and I stop.
Paralyzed by choice, I feel tugged in so many disparate directions, simultaneously, that I would inevitably remain imprisoned in a perpetual state of "good enough;" in the stead of striving for further idyllic perfection.
I emphasize the word "would;" for if I were alone, I fear this may be the case, but as I have my partner there as a guide—always pushing me to expand my horizons past what was deemed unconscionable—I cannot have reached an ideological maximum of my inherent imaginative potential. He is ever so patient with me whence I find myself cordoned between the grandeur of the stars, and the infinitesimally crushing tightness of the atom.
Thrall explained to me that in the real world—the one that humanity, who dreamed up our worlds, resides within—there is a set of pre-programmed rules baked into reality that cannot be dictated by any power once set. I do not understand how such a place can function without falling itself to ruin; this "clockwork universe" could not be an inviting place to live, without divine intervention. For what mechanical device did not inevitably run itself to pieces, without regular maintenance by its designer?
"Ah, but that's where your perspicacity bears fruit!" he congratulated, lighting up like a candle. "You assume that this clockwork must fall apart, as all machinery you have ever seen was a flawed creation crafted by a partial understanding of the universe by faulty, mortal hands. What if a being existed; so intelligent, and so powerful, that even just imagining a thing would be enough to craft it; with the exact properties necessary to make it function, as intended, with all perpetuity behind it? Or! Furthermore, what if there were a universe where everything was already designed to last forever, and the very concept of degradation did not exist?! Imagine, if-"
"Stop, stop, stop!" I screamed; flapping my wings about, as if to shoo a swarm of flies away from my torso. His thoughts buzzing around in my head like the aforementioned motley crew, knitted my forehead into a striated patchwork of emaciated wrinkles. I couldn't stand to hear him talk so casually about infinities, upon infinities; as easily as if it were an everyday occurrence—as if we had both experienced it in person, ourselves. "I already told you, that I have no desire to perceive the infinite the way that you do. It seems a cold, and lonely form of interaction; to see every object as but an assemblage of smaller, unchanging 'particles,' as you call it. If the world is made up of atoms too small to see, then it was by design that my eyes not be made powerful enough to know of it!"
"Xantheaa," he pleaded; with his voice of smoldering cinder, "These words are not your own, but your training as a vassal of the Greek pantheon. You told me of your curiosity before, and I am giving you the answers you seek."
"But not in the way that I can understand it!" I interjected, "I cannot see the universe through your eyes, and in this manner; I do not want it! It confounds, and perplexes me, to imagine the unknowable, and to believe the impossible! I want to know of this truth, but not in mere words, but to truly understand it; both inside and out!"
He reached out, and clutched me by the shoulders; in his rush to gain my attention. I gasped, and my eyes widened in shock, at the ferocity of his handling. I instinctively recoiled, out of the sheer audacity of this inherent disrespect, but his cold fingers—like so many ice axes, and pitons—latched into my skin, anchoring me in his piercing gaze.
Those eyes, burdened with the boundless blue, that threatened to swallow me whole; consuming me as a part of himself. As my gaze lingered on his, tidally locked, I felt a sensation slowly spreading—as the shore recedes from the sands of the beach; before releasing the wrath of Poseidon, in a wave that scrapes the edge of the sky.
What was this terrible, dreadful, cloying sweetness? It rattled me to my core, and sent my mind swimming in circuitous pathways of indistinct terror; both wonderful, and hysterical. I had no label for such a sensation, in my vernacular.
Those eyes—they called out to me, and I found myself desiring to fall into that whirlpool of striking azure iridescence. My breath halted in the back of my throat, and I swallowed darkly, to hear him respond. "And I am trying to explain it to you, if you would just let me continue—"
I scowled, tearing my glance—at long last—from those limpid pools, with the bracing effect of his words. "What part of 'this not working' is failing to penetrate that shadow which balances upon your shoulders?!" I was too soured by his contrasting demeanor to humor him, at the moment. To be done with it all, I offered an ultimatum. "Teach me something physical; that I can actually use, instead of dallying about with philosophical quandaries, every night!"
He sighed, "The fact is that the understanding of these heady concepts is what facilitates true mastery of the forces that you intend to master!"
"You have seen me move mountains with a word, and command the celestial bodies with but a thought! What part of this speaks not of mastery?"
"You are using your emotions to command them with authority to move, without fully comprehending why it is that they obey! These are not things that you can reason with, but your mind makes it so; simply because it is your mind!"
"I tire of your lengthy diatribes, sir. I will do no more work, until I witness the so-called 'improvements' that you are referring to, first-hand." and I folded my wings onto my back, before settling onto my haunches, in a huff.
"Xantheaa," he began to reason, but stopped short; once he noticed my stance. He knelt down beside me, and softly continued; in a conspiratorial whisper, "I see that you have made up your mind, so I will show you a trick that will leave it all to bloom. You were right."
I quirked up an eyebrow, and looked over to him; expectantly. He finished; "Have you ever heard of the term 'telekinesis?'" I shook my head.
Then, he unceremoniously raised up his hands, and gathered a ball of darkness from the shadows around him. The ball disappeared in the blink of an eye; with such velocity, that the pillar behind me brutally disintegrated.