In my dream I crept along a staircase, listening as many men were mentioned while most women remained unnamed.
I watched as narratives were set upon the precipice of artifact and that which promoted obsolete resonance was loyally restored and made inherently unquestionable. Perhaps the fall of Christ had truly taught us nothing.
Or maybe only shown that lies would continue in an unbroken stream and evil would take root as long as branches of thought and logical conclusion remained our sole tether to reality.
And the flame of revolution might be given air to breathe for as long as injustice too watered the roots with blood. Only a feeling, never acknowledged as truth.
So like the rain it would shower upon the vulnerable, without reason or consequence.
It was those who lacked the refuge of shelter, or perhaps even sailed out to unforgiving waters in precisely the right place at the wrong time, who were largely caught in the unlucky onslaught.
And after the sky cleared and the day was made anew we did not remember those caught in the flood. We did not reproach those who had sped its coming, but we celebrated those who had not witnessed it firsthand for their survival.
We kept celebrating and they kept the rain coming.
The branches shrunk and the blood took roots further and deeper.
Caverns and tunnels formed in the empty spaces. A haven of indifference which forever distracted us with the flames behind and the shadows beyond, playfully splashing along the walls with increasing efficiency.
We were warm in the dark with the flames at our backs acknowledged but never faced, and the shadows at the fore which we criticized but continued to worship.
So in the dark we kept thinking and figuring and celebrating, now used to the water which lapped at our feet, the level rising at such a steady rate we did not realize the flood never stopped. Feeling was snuffed, logic reigned, reason retreated.
But I think we understood less, and forgot what the rain felt like.
STARSMIRK 