Summary: Dreams can be caught but they are elusive
butterflies, transient and ephemeral.
Rating: PG-13
Dreams are elusive butterflies, transient and ephemeral.
Brilliant when they exist in our sleep worlds, they quickly
fade away, leaving only images, snatches of sound and flashes
of color. It is difficult to catch a dream, cup it inside your
hands. You open your hands only to find out that the
dream-butterfly has alreadly slipped away. You are left with
the experience, the sensations of running, chasing and
capturing that single elusive dream.
There are many nights where I have lain in my bed, trying to
remember my dreams. People, places both fantastic and horrible,
voices beautiful and hideous, and sensations come and go in
these dreams. But when morning comes, I wake up with only
whispers in my mind. Sometimes, I struggle to consciousness in
the grips of a nightmare but even then, I quickly forget the
demon faces, the howls of bloodthirsty hunger. Only the red and
black...a mask of immeasurable hatred...and of pain,
soul-taking pain...
I have to say that I am not a believer of dreams. There is a
branch of the order dedicated to the study and discipline of
dreaming. Yet, they are gifted with Force prophecy and I am not
a Jedi prophet. I am only a simple man, content to dwell in the
Living Force. Dreams are insubstantial, unstable...unable to
pin down. I have been advised to keep a journal, to track the
dreams like a scholar. But again, I have politely declined.
I can hear a soft tinkling, a gentle melody, drifting into the
room. Outside, the wind hisses like abrasive sand. It is warm
where I am sitting. Indeed, I am wrapped in layers of blankets.
I shiver still, even in this hot room. I know I am ill. I feel
as if I am trapped in the planet Hoth with the bone-chilling
blizzards lacerating my body. I am ill, a man brought down by
age and bodily sickness.
The soft tinkling continues and I draw strength from it. It is
the dream-catcher, hung next to the window. I can see it in my
mind: a circular frame made of pliant wood, an
intricately-woven center made of spiderwire, decorated with
glass and metal bits salvaged from the scrap yards. Just
yesterday, I have added a tail-feather IÕd found during
one of my slow walks.
I find myself stiffening automatically at the sound of a faint
hooting in the distance. Sand people are not to be trifled
with. However, the local clan leader has worked out a truce
with me: he will not disturb me and vice versa. As long as I
supply them with food, they will not break the promise. At the
moment, they are happy, with their hunting and their supplies
of cultivated tubers. Why I stiffened I donÕt know...
Perhaps, I still have it in me, the warrior instincts that have
kept me going for years.
A cough in the garden. I smile. You are still harvesting, I
can tell. I can imagine your hands unearthing the long white
tubers from the sand, placing them into the basket. This is a
celebration, a fulfilment of your dream. I admire you and your
youthful energy. You are still young, in the prime of your
life.
Nearby, I know that the pot is gently bubbling away. Tuber
soup, judging by the smell. It will soon be the late meal. I
lean back against the chair and close my eyes, listening to the
diverse sounds that have become part of my life now. The
hissing wind, the rasp of the shovel in the garden, the
bubbling pot of soup, the soft tinkle of the dream-catcher. It
is so easy to drift into a state of blissful
unconsciousness...so easy to fall asleep and never wake up.
Dreams. Of searing pain. Of a red and black mask fixed with
hate. Red and black. Red and black. No. No. No.
I find myself staring into your eyes. Green-blue eyes clouded
with worry. You shake your hand, sigh and adjust the blankets.
I reach out with my hand and I notice --- for the first time
--- that it is gnarled and spotted with age. You used to like
my hands. Large, powerful, reassuring.
You hand me a cup of tuber soup and I inhale in the wonderful
aroma. Your eyes tell me to drink and I obey, sipping the soup.
It is savory and it warms my stomach. I feel --- for a blessed
moment --- warm.
"Obi-Wan," I say quietly and you glance over at me. You hardly
speak now. Even when you do, it is done in a clipped manner. We
are both hurt and we are still healing. You smile now, your
eyes creasing ever so slightly. Have I ever told you that your
smile is so uplifting?
Silently, you glide over and embrace me. I can smell the earth
on your skin. We hold each other, taking comfort in our body
warmth, our proximity. Our lovemaking now is gentle, almost
hesitant but beautiful all the same. Soon, we lay together,
encased in a post-coital glow. Do you know that I have dreams
like these and I am so afraid this joy will disappear, like
dreams in the morning?
You sleep soon after. You must be exhausted from all the
harvesting. I sit next to you, listening to your breathing,
watching the rise and fall of your chest. I can hear the
dream-catching tinkling... Right now, I want to capture this
moment in my mind, capture it and remember it in the fullest
detail. But these moments are like dreams...ephemeral,
insubstantial...
It has been said that one of the functions of the
dream-catcher is to capture the bad dreams and dissipate them
in the morning. As I watch you sleep in my arms, I only wish
that the sayings were true.
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