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Having a Recurring Dream: The Journey of the Magi
The following letter has appeared on the Mycologist's vanity overnight. It has since then been meticulously filed away with its brothers and sisters in the repurposed hatbox that usually serves as a table for a beautiful potted burlap stem. The fungi of he house shy away from that hatbox. And from the vanity, come to think of it.
I know I do not write to you often. I don't have the way with words you do. But we have scarcely seen each other lately and I feel I need to warn you.
You are courting a disaster. Again. And while I am grateful that you haven't stepped away from me when everyone (myself included) told you to do so... Whatever you are doing, let it be. Let it go.
You won't. I am aware you won't. I know you inside and out. But I still have to ask you anyway.
'What does he know of what I do and whom I court? What does he care?' Those might be your thoughts, except more verbose. More poetic, like everything you say and do is more poetic.
First of all, I am your b____y husband. Of course I care! And I do not like to have a competition in the form of a self-destructive project. If you want to have your skull unfolded open, all you have to do is ask and I will do it! You won't even have to ask, I'll do it anyway.
But more importantly, not only I care, I know something is wrong, because the Parabola around your dreams has changed.
Yes, it changes all the time. But those changes are gradual. They follow a logic. Dream logic, but a logic nevertheless. It is never a sudden upheaval of the dreamscape.
Your dreams are now made of snow. Each snowflake like a razor. They cut and get beautifully lodged just beneath the skin.
There is no light there. The entire Parabola basks in the cosmogone light the Second Sun... except for whatever you have going on right now. It is dark and watery. It doesn't even work as a nightmare well, because whatever goes bump in the dark, you don't get to see it even when it bumps into you.
Not that anything goes bump there. Well, I did, but I don't count. I was just visiting.
Oh yeah, I also fell into a hole there. Not too deep, mind you. Easily climbed out, really. It could stand to have a headmarker. Or howling wind around.
As far as maintenance goes, this thing you've made is easy, but... I know you. You can dream worse and bigger.
Has this anything to do with you waking up covered in hoarfrost every morning?
Maybe sleep with the lid open; it might freeze shut otherwise. Oh I would be overjoyed to have you there, all wrapped in velvet in a tight box. Like the old times. But you always complain about having to get up every morning to do this or that. You'd be downright insufferable if you messed up your schedule.
I promise I'll visit. Don't think I haven't noticed your ears have healed.
Polish the pretty needles, would you?
Sealed with kisses
E.
Addressed to: Dearest
I know I do not write to you often. I don't have the way with words you do. But we have scarcely seen each other lately and I feel I need to warn you.
You are courting a disaster. Again. And while I am grateful that you haven't stepped away from me when everyone (myself included) told you to do so... Whatever you are doing, let it be. Let it go.
You won't. I am aware you won't. I know you inside and out. But I still have to ask you anyway.
'What does he know of what I do and whom I court? What does he care?' Those might be your thoughts, except more verbose. More poetic, like everything you say and do is more poetic.
First of all, I am your b____y husband. Of course I care! And I do not like to have a competition in the form of a self-destructive project. If you want to have your skull unfolded open, all you have to do is ask and I will do it! You won't even have to ask, I'll do it anyway.
But more importantly, not only I care, I know something is wrong, because the Parabola around your dreams has changed.
Yes, it changes all the time. But those changes are gradual. They follow a logic. Dream logic, but a logic nevertheless. It is never a sudden upheaval of the dreamscape.
Your dreams are now made of snow. Each snowflake like a razor. They cut and get beautifully lodged just beneath the skin.
There is no light there. The entire Parabola basks in the cosmogone light the Second Sun... except for whatever you have going on right now. It is dark and watery. It doesn't even work as a nightmare well, because whatever goes bump in the dark, you don't get to see it even when it bumps into you.
Not that anything goes bump there. Well, I did, but I don't count. I was just visiting.
Oh yeah, I also fell into a hole there. Not too deep, mind you. Easily climbed out, really. It could stand to have a headmarker. Or howling wind around.
As far as maintenance goes, this thing you've made is easy, but... I know you. You can dream worse and bigger.
Has this anything to do with you waking up covered in hoarfrost every morning?
Maybe sleep with the lid open; it might freeze shut otherwise. Oh I would be overjoyed to have you there, all wrapped in velvet in a tight box. Like the old times. But you always complain about having to get up every morning to do this or that. You'd be downright insufferable if you messed up your schedule.
I promise I'll visit. Don't think I haven't noticed your ears have healed.
Polish the pretty needles, would you?
Sealed with kisses
E.