Everything that was not suffered to the end and finally concluded, recurred and the same sorrows were undergone. ~ Siddhartha by Herman Hesse.

In recurring - often mystical - dreams, all my presumptions are encapsulated. What, after all, is more presumptuous than a dream?

OMID – HOPE (PERSIAN)

I sent my Soul through the Invisible,
Some letter of that After-life to spell:
And by and by my Soul return’d to me,
And answer’d “I Myself am Heav’n and Hell:” - The Rubaiyat by Omar Khayyam

This dream of hope projects my desires.

I am a witness.

I am amongst men, women and children dressed in long white tunics. We stand barefoot on fertile ground.

At first, there are no words just thousands of smiles that flash like stars. Tears flow, but they are tears of joy.

This is my axis mundi. This is the center of the world – neither heaven nor hell (or both) – where all god heads are worshiped as one (or not). Our feet are planted in the ground like seeds then slowly, tears run together like a river irrigating the land that once bled black blood then almost suffocated itself.

Instead, our tears made more fertile what was once fallow, allowing us to begin to ripen and grow toward a sun that was obscured by smoke, cynicism and hopelessness. All we could do was smile because the oil had changed and we thrived once again in the land of the rising sun. The atrocities are now distant memories and children can dream once more of being queens and kings.

In a recurring dream all my presumptions and hopes are nurtured. It is a dream of possibilities. As a young boy did, once upon a time, I had the audacity to hope that it would come to pass… that it would not disappear when my eyes were unveiled to the light of dawn.