ganten

I had a dream that I was a brick-layer - not a laborer, but an artist. Every shape I laid was pure - mathematically and spiritually such that when tens, hundreds, then thousands of them were all interconnected, I could leave this place temporarily. Leaving was magical. It was a rest, a relief, a ray of sun spilling through the window at things all too taken for granted. So I laid.

Soon after, my wanderlust and hunger for the other place was dissolved entirely. I wasn't a brick-layer, I was a thing - a laborer, not an artist. Every shape I laid was pure - which meant that my creations were tainted by sterility - stained by "cleanliness." Leaving was harrowing. It was a nightmare, a spectre, a shadow in the corner of my sight. So I stopped.

Not because I wanted to (my mosaic was always supposed to be more wondrous), but because I had laid out my last brick - my last piece was gone, and I could no longer stand. I drifted away, and in my dream, every shape was pure.

So it goes,

ganten