Dreams writen on Paper

I wrote this special story at a time of very great hardships in my health,,just thinking why I wrote so much inner feelings,,,

Spet and his soul,,,

.by Tomas D Chacon on Wednesday, February 16, 2011 at 7:24pm.

Tom Chacon tdccomm1@yahoo.com



Spet



The collective visions of a life long before all the rushing crowds of cultures tethered as puppeteers lead them into believes of structure gods, pennants of sacrifices surrounded by pagan virtues. While you enjoy and read this fictional short story think what if? Imagining a place before motor vehicles, a small village beyond our modern world, someplace full of solitude, many checker board canyons along streams between mountains topped with snowcaps. Spet is a mere family man of less than twenty years of age, determined to follow the sacred believes embedded inside his heart and mind.
This setting is a village, surrounding many more small communities before the world had complicated time restraints; far away from the normal livelihood we are so involved ; envision a grand scene flooded with an ongoing collage of multinational governments who impose structured demands into our youthful minds. This special place never existed for if by chance it has then maybe the puppets of our dying society and all its glory could be saved.

Please keep in mind that we as a people never really know what cultural ties and religious fellowships were stricken away, what esoteric connections we have with our Grand Creators intentions, yet I feel inside my heart that something and somebody is ever watching, enjoying our follies as we spend a very short period of our life time here, exposed as if on a movie set, the grand stage of life, for all to watch.



Same as before, he laid there watching the sunset, as the rain clouds slowly moved away, leaving the evening sunshine time to spread heat; as it finalized the day, the heat and lights warmth suddenly like waves receding, curling further away, leaving and drying the land once again.

Spet was soaked into the sand, returning to that place which he had been longing for since childhood, away from the dry heat, his soul is consumed by the wetness, as the sands open up space for his tired soul; as water is absorbed upon the sandy beaches of hell. He knows now that he will never want again, feelings of aches or desires of confusion or yearning for answers to why some tribes have disfigured members, wrinkled withered members that die a miserable death, full of pains. They allow their parents to age into despair; that which the dry days cursed upon the living; to age withering away as the fallen leafs of a tree in autumn.

The inheritance is for the keepers, special little young souls boys and girls with bright imaginations, full of curiosity, openly descriptive and having no convictions; full of spontaneity. These children are wise to the rules, for dictatorship is willing, for it is nature’s way; their hearts are pure, full of excitement, simple needs. They have untrained minds that can choose the dreams for many, creating soft comfortable landscapes, warm and cozy abodes, they are the future. Yes in this tribal setting the minds of the youth generate the type of future for their children, by dreaming them. Those whom have youthful little minds can open up their dreams; thus only they can have the pleasures of sensuality, purely for the tribe; life’s mirrors.

The first to leave are the water givers, then suddenly as calm as the night a dry spell takes the last survivors into madness, drying the outside from the inside, the mind realizes that water is needed, once it is gone. The skins of those amphibious souls are blistered as the moonlight brings no vapors, no more dew to frolic in, no more laughs, the splashing about is forever gone, as they too lay their heads upon the dry earth, waiting for the morning sun, to take away that which is wet.

Spet was thinking back, about his childhood, full of wonderful sunny days, the springtime memories of yesterday. Playing and running about holding his parents hands, joyfully the skipped around, his father and mother would show Spet how to fish, or gather fruits and vegetables, many traditional day to day simple tasked, which was always fun and rewarding. Then as they aged from youthful children more important tasked were introduced, Spet enjoyed those simple years, learning and watching, he was taught how to give, he was instructed that giving included sacrifices, valuable sacrifices, soon he was able to accept the ceremonial give, that dictation of sacrificial rituals, to release your own parents to the rains.



They evolved the children’s minds to accept all changes, normal activities which rewarded the minds ever yearning quench. Changes continue to swirl inside the people’s souls, a community of content. Throughout the generations of society each following generation contributes, evolving into current lifestyles.



Among the tribe there was plenty to share, all who was in need were gladly provided for, the seasons of harvest pleased the senses, full of tasteful delights; eat and drink for today you are alive and well, soon as you will all figure out that; eventually time has a price.

It is the end of the dry season, the end of the aging process, for nobody is allowed to age more than twenty summers; as they gather together to accept the ritualistic ceremonies; that is to sacrifice their remaining years, for the youths. According to tribal dictum, every tribal member has their last rites; to include the facts, or acceptance that soon the elders will leave never to return; for the rain washes away the dry and old, cleansing the lands. Therefore as the youthful minds of the people are concentrating, waiting for the rain, that is when they must say good bye.



The river was receding, small pools of water were all along the washed up path, where once a mighty river flowed. Still many fish swam in the channels, and swimming near the surface. Spet worked hard, as sweat dripped from his brow, his arms bronzed by the noon sun, rapidly he was collecting fish from the fish traps, returning the empty traps into the water, as he piled his catch into a wicker basket salting the fish. He was pleased, winded from heat exhaustion yet pleased for he had done so well, the catch today was plenty. His mind was cluttered; he was preoccupied with recollections of last night’s feast, women and children happily about, sharing all that was provided.

Pondering deep inside his mind, think if yet,,,, only if, he thought, if only the rain would not return for another year, that would be plenty of time to share more with his family.



He is now old enough to take the journey, the long sleep, forever giving away all that was learned, to watch by their side, never to reach and hold his children again, yet to watch them age up to twenty, then they will come to sit and watch. That is the creed, condemned forever sitting among the youth watching silently.

His tribe is the first to pray for rain, they are the first to watch the sun return. This is how all life’s balances are, for it is only nature’s way of regenerating the lands. For all landscapes, both within the soul as outside the soul, the landscapes are mirrored from within are the dreams, the connection of everything and everybody starts within the minds visions of how and what we must do to thank our ancestry for providing us with such abundant fruitful surroundings, cool waters for all to drink. Well springs continue spurting bubbling waters that are the rejuvenated life’s forces, as the children of the sun learn to protect our traditional ways, appreciating the choices made by their forefathers.



He was completely entranced by anticipation of tonight’s feast to come, for tonight’s the night that many new comers are planning the ritualistic prayers for the rain, young adults will take control of the tribe, as the elders return into the earth. Knowing that they must watch the choices made from many dreams develop, willed by his generation, are the dreams, of today, tomorrows’ realities, for all to enjoy.



This was the season of many special meals, cooking herbs and roots and delicious delicacies with fish. Tonight’s feast might be the last he would ever have, for a haze was thickening over the horizon, and tomorrow the rains might come for him. The clouds above sent a warning for the tribal members to gather, and prepare a meal to thank our forefathers for such wonderful dreams, visions of today they dreamed for our comforts as Spet knew he could do as well.

Lost children of the sea, for some said that it is over, never to return into the voids of our minds, passions full of deepened craves hidden from light is where they sleep, sending visions of their hermitage, our keepers yearn to return yet; it is impossible, yet to watch is the only relieve they have. Many self imposing inflections, swarm among Spet’s conscious thoughts, yet not even he has a clue as to lead him into the other realities, those realities that he will soon visit, the long sleep is all he knows about that place. Spet walks up that so familiar hill, sand in between his toes, he smiles to himself, carrying his fish to his family, knowing so intently the happiness they will share for all his hard work. The abode is humble as everybody is excited, seeing the cloud burst, grand thunderheads’ are gathering high above his village. Children run about seeking something sweet, as Spet grabs berries from his pocket, passing each child a small portion, they thank him and run off to play.



The Watchers are also gathering about, waiting for the prayers. In some mystical realm; a far off place where everything is soft and everything is bright, vividly clear, and the music is intensely alluring the ears, playing in the back grounds of your mind; visions of a play ground for young adults. The sensations of being as simple children, hidden within the memories of childhood, scurrying about, tickling each other and playing chase or tag, withholding no convictions of blame. The mindscapes of the Dragons welcome the open invigorating minds of the youth, for they are the only true contacts, they will listen and obey for they are sure of themselves. These are the souls behind the walls of sleep, direct descendents of the faith, caretakers of the psychic realms.


“Time has punished many who have not understood that it is relevant whence thine passing cometh, age is thou bequeathed upon thy souls as passages must cleans’ th all souls, soon to be, as thoust pass, along times quarry, we seek true believers upon thine realms within thine mind.”

The prayers will open up the windows of each believer own; such is the mind, holding that scent to which only the seer, the hearer, the touchier, the taster, has believed to be. The nonbelievers will not be permitted to enter upon the dreamers landscape, for the realities of the long sleep are either for the light or for the dark, either place has its own revelations. Those who choose that what is their own destinies, warmth from the feelings of our past is seen in the eyes of our youth, for ice is the same as fire, both wielding thoughts from the Dragons… The illusions are a mystery, who will write our history, they will be the same for who will write the past, so we must be the curators of the present..

Spet has aged into manhood, procreation is such a blessing, it has once again reached its maturity; perpetuating elements of the powers that be; for his family; soon he must be returning to the river, he must seek the reasons why his dreams are so comforting, why he has been blessed for so many dry seasons, yet his heart he will stay here with his children. He stands up looking into the vast crowds, many tribes have gathered to pray, for they will all give back to the Dragons; once the rain starts to fall.



The desert is quiet, nothing is about, as Spet bends over picking up a pebble, he tossed it far into the river, chanting a prayer, to find that pebble when his time comes to sit and watch the returned rains, a drop of water splashing on his shoulder frightens him, soon he was thinking. A huge crackle of lightning flashes above him, as he hastily sits, next to an old dried up tree, laying half way in the water, it is an old oak tree, the symbol of dominance, once a pillar of this forest, lays testimony to times wrath, for all shall have the acquaintance of such. The dry seasons are good and bad for everything counts on change, for that is where it all began, separating the clones within, allowing change, giving change all that it needs.



Spet wept, for he will never again be able to touch or hug his children, he will be destined to only watch, and behold the future of his tribes quest to exist among the forces of the Watchers, those puppeteers who dictate the weak followings of leaser beings.

The rain clouds have darkened, and the piercing sounds from thousands of children chanting, high up on the hill; their voices are reverberating, intensely the chants are shrills of pains, glories of giving all that a person can, yet losing that what is so needed, and dear to them their parents.



Solitude and loneliness encapsulates Spet’s wiry mind as strength seems to come and go with each breathe, yet he knows this is right. He has opened the doors, his mind has been released, he has been taught from his own Father and Mother what to do, for that is their creed, so he willingly smiles and accepts this as an invitation to go next to his longing hearts desires, soon to be sitting next to his parents, and their parents, and their parents, soon, yet only if. He has swirling visions of pictures: memories of his children’s activities playing about in the meadows, gleefully listening to his every word, Spet sits and rests his body next to this dry riverbed so grand.



A Stranger walked up next to Spet, and proceeded to burn sage around the ground from which he laid, chanting friendly words, foreign, yet very soft was his tone, Spet laid entertained watching the stranger; thus he was confused why such an event was even happing, the acquired situation as having a complete Stranger do such things. Spet tried to stand up yet his whole body became limp, and drawn to the ground, then Spet tried to speak yet his mouth would not open. As Spet soon realized this Stranger was only a child, dressed as a sky warrior, feathers, downed with leathery vest, and brandishing a simple weapon, a dagger of brilliances design. The rain began to start picking up pace, drizzling upon both him and the Stranger child. Spet ignored the child, as soon Spet managed to stand, he so much taller, yet amused at the child’s intense demur as panting became his winded tone, the Stranger prayed for the rain to stop.

It was dangerous to ignore a Stranger, and Spet knew he was not to try to speak of such blasphemy, to change the ritualistic coming of the rains. But to make the normal peace gestures and agreements would be implying that the Stranger was from a tribe of the enemies. Nobody bleeds for the dancer, as the sounds become overbearing from up on the hills far away the children chant, as the night is soon to befall upon the ceremonial events. All the children were singing, chanting lovely tunes getting ready for the seasons to come and change the dreams of both worlds into reality.




Spet preferred to be polite, so he pretended not to care for which the Stranger had suggestively presented, Spet continued to watch that little person prancing about, and ignoring the Strangers comment, thus that which was implied. That spunky little Stranger draws a line in the sand, for Spet could not understand why it had implied a truths, yet why,,,He was not sure of this man, as why he was so mysterious, prancing about.

The rivers dry sands were now taking water from the edges, each passing moment the crashing waters continued to splash about, edging closer and closer, they are rising, a sign that rain is near, as the river starts to swell, and raging waters soon engulf the river’s edge, flowing from high up on the mountains the rains began falling; first next to the Watchers.

If he lived thru the night, and was able to see the sun just one more time he thought, then life was complete, for the blackness of nightfall has arrived. Spet turned and could see the huge fires rimmed along the cliffs, as the ceremonial events picked up pace welcoming the rains. All the children were singing, chanting as he did so many times, each year as the dry season ended.



The Stranger continued to dance, giving reason for the attempt to cheat and escape the ritual event, yet Spet knew what this child was doing, enticing a temptation of freedom. To live longer than twenty summers was forbidden, yet a momentary thought at that, just to think of such a request.



Suddenly the old Stranger was tired from dancing, his reddish brown transparent face, was full of desperation. The Stranger was turning remarkably ugly, his youthfulness has passed as a leaf changes from lush green to tanned brownish; a warning that the summers wrath will soon be coming to dry the earth. The night brought little light although Spet could see the Stranger transpire; the ugly scaly wrinkles upon his skin, and withered hands weakened by forces unseen. The Strangers back was hunched, his hair seemed to change grayish, thinning as to partly be bald, and all his pearly white teeth were gone. The aged Stranger was in pain, arthritis, and scouring the every sign of youthfulness away, tormenting the feeble creature; blindness sets him as he is waiting remorsefully for death, as it lingered about, he was slowly deteriorating right in front of Spet.



A frightened countenance pressed his face back. Spet never reached out to offer his assistance. The child Stranger was appalled, Spet turned around swiftly; thus ran away, fading into the darkness of the night. He stopped only to rest right next to that old tree; that was lying halfway in the water, buried inside the sand.



For whom the bells tolls, as the children chant songs of relieve, singing songs that welcomed the rains, for that is what saves his tribe for natures calling to a torturous demise, times quarry.


Sagaciously the Watchers are aware of Spet, for he has passed the first of millions of challenges, windows of temptations, that many have failed, thus trying to change the rituals, eons of desperation for the innate passions of man have unending fulfillment, only to acquire the skills of a Dragons lair will mankind’s mind rest, thus have true peace.



The morning dew was dripping off Spet, as the rains were still yet to unleash their powerful deluge, for the dry seasons are now over, and the children of the sun have prayed. Many speak of two tribes of children, those who are of the sun and children of the sea. Both came from the sky as well as from the depths of the ocean floors, half of our species came from stardust, as the other half came from the swelling volcanoes deep under the ocean floors. The birth of fire and ice were wielded by Dragons from our distant past, keepers of the time dwellers, dreamers of fantastic voyages.



Since their belief that they have came from either place, or that they may return to that place from which they have started. That is whenever their soul departed into this life that is where they shall return, therefore only the Watchers know from where each man has to return too. The return of the rains are here, soaking the mountains and covering the peaks washing away the waste from the higher realms first, for everything must flow down ward, leaving the ebbs of only memories for the listeners.



The desert was lush green, as the clouds kept close the mountains, Spet listened for any sign of his tribe, for the stillness and quietness made him feel lonely, for he could vaguely hear last night’s chants, the shrilling voices of his faithful kinship. He scanned the waters of the river, noticing fish swimming about, as now the morning sun was turning the horizon bluish, purple, slight tints of orange, bouncing off the darken nimbostratus formation luring just above. Spet feels them in his blood, adrenaline races throughout his veins, he knows soon he will sit next to them, quietly observing his children, watching as do all Dragons.


High above the rainbow, scattering about and swirling as dancers the Dragons return, by the cover of the clouds, they come for elegantly fined tuned songs of the children. The music is an enchantment; euphoria encapsulates the mentality of the mighty Dragons, as they swoop towards the sounds, encircling the tribe. The peace from the finely tune chants evaporates the senses into the minds of the children, they sing favorably for the rains, totally engulfed by the spirits from above.



It was possible that the Stranger last night was just an illusion, a ghost to warn him that his choice, that choice to be a Dragon, was him, completely accepting the sudden relieve to be taken away from his children; received by his own parents once again.

For his vivid memories of his parent were short lived, yet joyful, moments in his past; shared as with his own children have; the look of happiness, completeness. For Spet knew that figures in dreams were often sent before hand to tell you something and often they could not speak, but the way they looked and the signs they made were meant to give you a message. The brown ghost was shaped like a youngling, until the nightfall, then it aged in front of Spet, a visage of what the soul would look like if it aged fully until death, the loss of youth meant the total loss of control, that of controlling the body as well as the mind. For eventually the mind and body, with all the muscles, will tire and die a painful death. Perhaps this one came in the daylight instead of a dream, to see Spet before his long sleep, to parade once for him, a pleasing farewell; the ghost dance was so vivid inside Spet’s thoughts.





Spet had realized the cold facts, as water was running off his arms, he stretched outwardly, reaching up towards the heavens; he seen the sun piercing thru the morning clouds, praying for rain. The rivers water was edging closer towards him, the rapids washing trees downstream, and he looked up high on the cliffs. As rain drops increased, he screamed trying to communicate with all the by standers, the children were watching as the rivers were now filling up, returning the waters that are so needed. Another ending for the season of dry, has passed once again relieving the old from the harness; that sensation of ageing, that weakness inherited by life on earth, gravitational pulls, and the static magnetic forces luring time into a frenzy to consume everything, one particle at a time. The Dragons swarmed high above the children, screeching and imposing penetrating vibrations of emotional thoughts; comforting the children with vivid visions of their Grandparents, and loving messages that they too will soon be invited to watch.

From high above Spet on the cliffs all the children chanted louder, as the rains continued, one young boy and a girl walk over to the edge, they see Spet, their father; between the rain fall the young boy sings louder, and the rains kept coming, as the young girl sing intently along; as the rains take him away…

The thought was frightening, as Spet seen the Strangers ghost standing right next to him, the Stranger spoke with a stern voice out to Spet “ The ground is no longer dry!” and he pointed at rivers edge, smiling at Spet waving at him, a slight gesture as to comfort him, leading him; a gesture to follow. Rain fell down hard, splattering a sensation throughout Spet’s body, tingling warmth from his excitement covered him completely. Spet seen the children waving good by, as he sat on the ground, happy that the Dragons were diving down heading towards him. Rain fell intensely as the brownish ghostly figure melted into the earth. Spet sat waiting as he was amazed at how many fish were jumping out of the water, splashing about, he felt his soul withering slowly away into the sandy mud, sinking beneath the dampened earth, his body was soaked, soggy as the earth absorbed him completely. The clouds, nimbostratus opened up displaying the Dragons as they flew higher and higher up into the heavens.



TOM CHACON Sept. 2011
tdchacon23@yahoo.com