Sleepwalking

I have travelled a great deal in space. And these times, I must admit, my soul is rather gloomily imitating our foul November weather. I lift my foot from the earth, examining dirt and hopefully discovering some of Whitman's remaining immortal atoms. Something to share, far beyond space and time. On these walks I listen to voices humming tunes from a distant past, guiding me, and pushing me onward, for every step I take moves me closer to Spring.

It seems to me that on the day of my birth, it was Ravel's bolero that would finally urge me to leave the womb, only to discover an annoyingly obscure and November-weather world.  I would find but comfort in sleep, and my mother.

I plant another foot beside an old pond with signs advising me not to feed the ducks. I'm still walking and remarkably sleepy. 

Does it surprise me to hear I never cried when I was a baby, yet shedding tears from an endless ocean during childhood? Who would want to disturb a sleeping baby? Who wouldn't want to punish an annoying brat? One of my earliest memories was bound with a notion of time and departure. Being left behind by my mother in some weird and huge place, filled with weird and huge creatures. I remember something like "…'ll be back in just an hour", though I probably left out "a couple of…". Well, what kind of vocabulary do you expect from a three year old? I remember trying to figure out how time exactly worked, and when the hell my mother would finally pick me up again! I watched the clock, I cried and slept; I watched the clock, cried and slept again. I don't think it had anything to do with education, this was me in one of my purest forms. A form in which I had extreme difficulty trying to connect to the outside-world.

There's a cave I've never noticed before. And it seems completely out-of-place there.

There's a statue of a forgotten Virgin, and some benches for prayers, which I'm gladly using to shelter from the rain. There's one candle still burning and I use it to lit a few more surrounding it. It fills my heart with joy for a mere second and it immediately vanishes into the gutter of my soul. I think I'm still doing what I started doing some 25 years ago. To look for some kind of connection with this world, other than sleeping. Back on my feet again, now marching in pace with a different drummer. My legs swell up and I should mind my steps now, because they might injure some innocent bystanders. 

In the mood of an evening dinner, when darkness had already cast its light on a fearful disposition, I found myself to be a lot older, surrounded with beings that hold some kind of grudge against one another. I was anxious to sleep, but uncomfortably discovered the room filled with quiet desperation. Out of comparison and idealism grew some early signs of conscience. And this conscience was rather unhappy with the circumstance of feeling completely useless. It started to care. And at such an age, you can safely regard this conscience not capable of communicating with the mind. It rather throws up some imitated versions of emotions, freezing the surrounders with a shout and a cry, hence to see them think; "it speaks..'

But of course, even the conscience eventually discovers that it cannot change anything in this manner of untempered hatred. If we are to find some peace with one another, the conscience has to grow conscious of its own complexity. Once again, I had to go to sleep. 

I climb a steep hill, and in its sight is planted a stairwell leading up to a small house, almost invisibly hidden in the side of this breast-like elevation of the earth. It certainly resembles the cave I visited earlier, only there are no candles to lit the place. I wait for my eyes to adjust the darkness, and notice an extremely small living room with a broken fire-place; an open, empty cupboard, and a shelve with our suffering in full display. Even Jesus is hiding in darkness. 

This is the third house in decay I encounter on my great travels in this small town, and I'm growing a little suspicious about this coincidence, if so. Could it be that in contemplating my personal history, set forth by some uninviting November weather (even the sun's hiding!), that my feet will lead me right where my mind is staying? Am I not the visitor of this abandoned little house, but rather the inhabitant? Now, instead of jumping up and storming out this claustrophobic place, I decide to sit down this time and stay.

I shall arrange a meeting between my mind and its conscience. 

And not fall asleep.