This is a story from my manuscript “Reflections of a Mad Butterfly”.
Have you ever felt as if you are awake yet you know you are sleeping? This happens to me quite a bit; I will admit, not as much as it used to, but every now and then, the so called “sleep paralysis” just hits me. Of course I don’t mind it so much when the dreams are pleasant, it’s such an intoxicating experience, I don’t think anyone in their right mind would want such thing to end.
There are times when my dreams are pretty surreal and I wish I was Picasso or Van Gogh, so I may paint the things I see…pure magick. Other times however, the surrealism takes another turn; it takes me to a place of horror and chaos which I can hardly comprehend.
I know psychology explains it as what lies beneath my conscious; the good and bad; but sometimes right after I wake up and the images are still quite clear, none of it seems to make sense and yet all of it does.
You either don’t understand and can’t relate to what I am saying, or you know very well what I mean…life is like that, we either get it or we don’t.
Last night my dreams were a mixed of both, nightmares and dreams. They were not surreal, this time they were history. I tried to think what could have brought them on, perhaps it’s the books I am currently reading. I love reading, I read books on history, mythology, alchemy, psychology, quantum physics, philosophy, art, etc. There are books I read because I am curious, I have a very inquisitive mind. And there are books I read because I feel as if I can understand the authors/characters from the inside out; authors like Carl Jung, Emil Cioran, Nietzsche, Osho, Delmira Agustini and Bukowski.
These past few days I have been reading two books simultaneously, one is from Charles Bukowski “Tales of ordinary madness” and the other is a poetry book. I chose to read them simultaneously to balance things. Bukowski is one of my favorite authors, but this book in particular, let’s just say the tittle is quite fitting. I understand the guts and heart of it but there are moments in which I find what I am reading hard to swallow, or as one would say in psychology, it triggers me. To me, it took guts to write a book like that, it is easy to write only niceties, matter of fact things, fictional things, but to write about your life, your experiences without sugar coating it, that is honest and I like honest. I admire his non apologetic way of simply being as much as I admire those who published him. They say it takes a genius to recognize another or a crazy person to recognize the madness in another, but aren’t we both? I mean, if we were really honest with ourselves, aren’t we both… good and bad, crazy and genius? I think is our perverse desire to try to fit in, that makes us mediocre. Anyway, I am enjoying reading it, as much as there are times I have to pause when I do; that is why, I chose to also read a book on romantic poetry.
I love poetry, not just because I compose my own but because to me is one of the purest forms of art, you can read the verses and get an accurate idea of the author’s soul. Some authors, they seem to just want to please the crowd; I like to think of them as fans of poetry. Others, they don’t only invite you into their soul but they open the door and guide the path to the deepest parts; you get to see the good, the bad, the perfect and imperfections that make up a human being…. beautiful!
Getting back to my dreams…it was as if was back where it all happened, I kept telling myself that it was all a dream…a nightmare, but my body would not do as I wanted it to. I felt as if could hear the footsteps running from the second floor, screaming “lock the doors, they are coming”. As soon as the words were said, I could hear the first bombs. I was 11 yet it wasn’t my first time hearing them…just never that close and not in my grandparent’s town. I could see the faces with fear and felt the windows shattered as the bombs got closer. I could see them coming into our house, I won’t ever forget that….
I could see the next morning clear as day, as if I was once more there. I just looked at the writings on the walls, perplexed, not realizing it wasn’t red paint they had used. I remember the confusion of those around, people crying; joy and sadness. Joy from those whom thought had lost a loved one, only to see that loved one alive. Sadness and excruciating pain for those who had lost their loved ones. I remember the bodies; I remember the loss of my friend….
And just like that, everything changes…. I could see her smiling at me. There is one image of her which won’t ever leave my mind, her smile, her beautiful innocent smile. My friend, the only one who knew the secrets I carried inside, the pain, the shame. My friend whom like me loved to dance, and dance we did! God, there is not a day that goes by that I don’t think of her and miss her. Yeah, I give love, but I stopped letting people in completely a long time ago. I do and I don’t; I let them see my world, my crazy, painful yet beautiful world but I don’t expect them to stay, so when it comes to a “girl” best friend, that ended a long time ago. She had a sister, but the bond her and I shared, that was more than just blood, we were sisters, twin souls…by choice; ours and the universe’s.
So, what is life? I guess it is moments. Perhaps is like Jodorowsky said, “we don’t make life, we move with life, we evolve with it” Just like Bukowski, he thinks life is made up of nightmares and dreams, for life holds its secrets close and we are just one more piece within a chess board of the divine. So, what to do with this sad reality? Should we succumb and give up? Some days I feel as if I should, but then there is the magick within, then I remember her smile, I remember us dancing and I think to myself “Fuck it…. I will be damned if I let you take me down. You want to dance? Let’s dance”