lights

I had an emotionally crushing dream on a balcony that I was a kid who had visual hallucinations and couldn’t control it. I would look out through the gaps in the railing at the city lights in the distance, and the stars. One of them would begin to oscillate up and down, or left to right, starting slow, and then dragging the other stars near it on its oscillating course as if there were some sort of resonant frequency in which the stars moved. I stared in amazement as the spectacle grew. Bright lights of blues, greens, and reds swept across the sky; tumbling, gyrating, climbing in the synchronized and syncopated patterns of my mind, and then the sky reverted to darkness. A father figure, or possibly a shrink, constantly had to tell me this spectacular lights show was all in my head, and nothing was real. I looked out into the sky again with conviction. I knew it wasn’t all in my head, I could see the lights — there it is again, see? One of the stars began to oscillate, conducting the surrounding symphony of lights to awaken in gradual stages from the shroud of the night and coalesce in a dancing rhythmic display of vibrant energy. The lights felt close; a part of me. It was me and the lights; nothing else. A hand weighed upon my shoulder. A burdened voice, like an overflowing jar, told me I was imagining this — all of this: it isn’t real. I looked upon the night sky again. I began to heave thick tears. I reached forward into the night sky, dark now, but instead fell to my knees. I watched for the lights. I was alone. Not even the heavy hand of the truthful man touched me. In despairing convulsions on sore knees I resisted the urge to go back inside, and instead waited for what mattered; waited for the lights.

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