I would like to tell of the time raindrops fell on my face. They were cool, clean, and sparkling as the sunshine. They washed away the dirt of life, and replaced it with the cleanliness of beginning. The clouds bringing them were dark and scary, they told of misfortune. The rains that fell, fell cold and damp, and talked of drowning. The thunder that followed talked only of doom.

The clouds talked of the misfortune. They predicted the worst, bu t tried to fool us into believing the best. We were a hard bunch, u nable to take the fact that the winds and the clouds spoke of bad times to come. I was Eshu, however. I had to to fight these things. I had to destroy them. I am not a believer is fate. I was not. I am now. I cannot deny that faith exists. Only that I try to make it the best. I am only a believer now, in that we cannot plan, nor can we succeed when the world crashes against us.

When the rains fell, they were cold, and drowning. They held us d own underneath the submissions, and clogged us up, from head to toe. We pulled in all of our strength, all of our pride. Because the pain was temporary. Pride is forever. Or at least for those few moments. Pride was everything. Who lasted longest. Who survived at some points, and who fought their way to the top of the ice ... the melted hot ice of submission, of frozen rains, tumbling down upon us.

The third part of this journey was the thunder of chaos. The resounding sound of everything breaking out into the world of nothing. It was the bursting of the iceburg, or rather the bursting of our souls. The bowling ball of time, crashing into the sun of eternity. Whatever you want to call it, but it was thunder, yes. It was awf ul red hot thunder, and it crashed above our heads, singing our death s as we drowned. As our journey steadily grew to the point of no return. And where are the others now, but trapped in a place of coldness. In a place of nothing. That was the thunder of chaos. That was the th under of the end. And did we work towards it. Did we beg it to kill us Did we plead for it to take our very lives and crush them between its strong fingers in the end of ourselves? Yes, oh yes we did. We begged for it. We took it upon ourselves, and enjoyed ever sado-mastochistic blow. We loved it.

Now it's obvious without speed and accuracy an arrow would be as harmless as a paper cut, but with them it is as dangerous as a switch blade that snaps out on it's own accord.

Speed is a dangerous weapon. It allows little things to hit you with large force, making them dangerous. It's dangerous not to have speed. The long straight rod provides that, but it's painful for another reason. It drives straight through your flesh leaving it's splintering remain behind, letting you remember it for a time to come. If a sharp tip came at your at full force and hit you, it would pierce you skin with no trouble and stop. With the rod behind it it drags through you taking pieces of you with it, never letting you forget it's pain.

The feathers at the end of the rod provide a deadly accuracy so that you can be sure to hit a target at a distance. It keeps the arrow flying high and straight in a positon that you will never forget if you die behind it. The arrows don't go through, they leave an imprint on your mind like a scar. The scar is cut deep and long so that you never forget it's pain or it's color. It's accuracy is deadly, but it's the imprint of flying colors that you will remember when you remember the pain.

It's these things that make the deadly arrows like people. The sharp point is what really hurts us. The cutting words, the flying fists, sharp knives and loaded guns. They leave the initial imprint and cause the intial skin tearing, blood wrenching pain that makes us think that is all there is. There speed, their accuracy, however, are what makes those people memorable for their pain. When we think of them, we think of the speed with which they struck us, the feeling that the aftershock left on our bodies, the feeling of the rod as it left it's splinters for us to comtemplate. When we remember them, we don't remember the flying fist initially, or the glinting knife eventually, we remember the look on their face, the strange decorative accuracy on it when they either took enjoyment in our pain or when they hated themselves for causing it. The pain, you see, is natural, it is neccesarry, it is our everyday life. The speed and accuracy however are what we remember as it makes it's mark, never to remove it.

I knew you didn't expect me to come back. I guess there is something that draws me here, to the line of dreams, but away from dreams for now. I had the urge to tell a tale, and so I came back to the dreams to tell that tale. But first, a poem if you will...

Sing a song of Sadness,
Sing a song of tears,
Sing a song that no one knows,
Pull me through the years,

Dance a dance madness,
Dance a dance of Fears,
Dance a dance that no one knows,
Pull me through the years,

Game a game of happiness,
Game a game of Cheers,
Game a game that no one knows,
Pull me through the years,

Talk a talk of days gone by,
Talk a talk of friends,
Talk a talk that no one knows,
Tell the tale that never ends,

This, lad, is talking of stories gone by, secrets untold, treasures unfound.

You see in life, there are many stories gone by, secrets untold, and treasures unfound, but they are not where we expect them to be. We expect them to be under the X in the middle of the Egyptian Pyramids, trailed with enemies, and frought with danger, but they are not quite so easy to get to. And you may not realize that is in front of you as you walk, breathe and sleep. Harder to get than a dungeon, as difficult to find as a dragon and as special as a fairie...

You see, these unknowns are hidden deep within our heart, and only when we chance the breaking of that heart, can we discover them. Life is not what it seems, lad, it is a constant battle of the heart, to get out, to live itself, and to not be influenced by the appearance of the devil or of the angels. Sing, Dance, Game and Talk, lad, it is how life is... it pulls you through the years, and tells the tale that never ends.

If we take this path, we must be aware that it does not always lead to the light. Sometimes the path is wrong and it leads us back to the beginning, but no matter how many times we try to journey down this path, named love, we must remember that the first journey cannot always be successful, for the first journey is always the most difficult, and by far, the most painful. We must fight to the bitter end, and when the bitter end hurts more than the beginning, we shall know that it is time to start over.

You learn things when you've been stuck in a glass goblet for a year. You begin to realize that luck, as many would have it, changes for us all. Dreams, inside and out, are not always what they appear. Images, are never the same when we see them more than twice. And crystal... changes your perspective on what's truly important, for it is now clear... crystal clear. I look out the side of this goblet as if it is a window that a princess would stare at. The big difference is the princess is in an eternal sleep from which she shall never wake and the window will not open, nor break, and I must waste my stories on a person who does not feel for me and my princess, what is truly meant to be felt int his world for anyone.

I would reach out and hold on, but there's nothing to hold on to. I would climb to the top and triumph, but alas there are no footholds. I would break the glass and burst back into life, but alas the glass is double pained, and so I live instead of dream. I close my eyes in this nightmare and live what is my real life and then I go to sleep and continue this horror that is dreaming, forever.

You must excuse me, for the pain is too great to handle anymore, I must close my eyes and go to wake, so that I do not have to sleep... and dream...

It seems that the path which led me here the goblet is beginning to start in my dreams. I am restrained in this place beyond places where I have two choices, either to journey on or to be caught up in a mailstorm of pain and sorrow.

Who am I? That's the question I must ask, and I must stop speaking in constant sentances that don't really say literally what I'm thinking. I must speak clearly this one time, and you must forgive me, for I will speak about something that really has nothing to do with my dreams and more to do with what's really happening. I need to talk to someone, and you, my friends, are my only outlet.

The name of this page is Reality's Dream, not the Dream's Reality, and that was a purposeful ordering of the words. Unfortunately lately everything has becoming a constant rush of reality and I find myself buried in it, lost in it and trapped by it. Sometimes I only wish to break free and find myself in this mess which is everything. Something inside of me has finally let me know that I see this page as a type of journal that cannot be read and reread literally but rathe as a compliation of feelings that I can express to everything and everyone and never have to worry about who I really am...

This page is my attempt at becoming a dream, about making my problems turn into dreams and that is why I reached out to touch everyone so they would share their reality... and their dreams with me so that I may reach out to them and let them know that they are never alone... no one... not even the lowest of the low is ever alone.

And so I end this now, this break from my dream, I must seep back into it, for it is my only end to the pain which I face daily... please stay with me, my dear little folk... for it is your reality that becomes my dream and my dream which should be everyone's reality... step into the dreaming, for it is within the dream that we shall be free... for all eternity. In Service of the Dream...........