Five Theses on the Casting of Dreams
As he crossed the bridge, he tossed his dreams into the passing river. He hoped that, there, they would dissolve and – after having broken down into their constituent parts – reenter the stream of existence that flowed throughout everything. Back when he used to eat a lot of acid they called it the Ebb. What he now called Politics was a part of their belief that the structure of our lives had gotten fundamentally misconstrued somewhere along the line and needed to be reconfigured with the Way. Meaning had to be to be re-injected into what seemed to be only a wasteland of repression, consumption and despair. Actually, what they had done was conflate the realization of their own ecstatic natures with their concern for the well-being of all sentient creatures – a potent combination. But it was only later that they realized this and were forced to tease out the tensions.
As he crossed the bridge, he tossed his dreams into the passing river. They had always failed him in the past, and as he was passing over the bridge, he could feel them weighing down in his pocket. Now seemed like a good time to divest himself of them.
He followed their descent into the water. To his surprise, they hit the river with a Plunk! and sunk directly to the bottom. Apparently, their real weight had been far greater than what they had seemed all these years that he had carried them around. It must have been his own delusions which had masked their true mass.
He figured that there was something about the magnetic force of the bridge which had temporarily disturbed the delusional field which he had been generating, thereby allowing him to correctly gauge the weight of his dreams, and it was this same flash of illumination which had also inspired him to relinquish his charge to the passing flows.
Now, all that was left was the task of forging new dreams.
As he crossed the bridge, he tossed his dreams into the passing river. Then he looked around, scanning the grey skyline and the crumbling docks, and he saw how they mirrored his own mind. It, too, felt grey and cluttered and decaying. It seemed like a poor nurturer of dreams. Dreams, he thought, should be free.
He thought of sitting on the banks of the Schuylkill River several years ago with his friend. There, a feeling of hope had pervaded him, and he had never let that moment go. It was, in fact, a bit of that moment which had impelled him to cast his dreams into the East River.
He ran to the other side of the bridge to watch them go by. Already, they had started to disintegrate in the water, and small pieces were trailing the main chunks as they were making their way downstream. He watched them move downstream for a bit, and then headed off on his way. He was supposed to joining his friend for dinner, and he didn't to leave her waiting. Besides, the wine in his bag was starting to get cold, and he felt that, at that moment, a glass would be delightful.
As he crossed the bridge, he tossed his dreams into the passing river. But he didn't watch their descent. Instead, he looked up at the buildings, illuminated like a thousand stars. Somewhere amidst those buildings was where all his dreams lie – not just his dreams (which came at night and in many forms, without warning or control or sometimes even sense), but also his wishes and nightmares and even the dull, rolling cascade of everyday. Everything he could ever hope for lay within the confines of that island, and everyday that he went to it, he went on a fishing expedition. The bait was himself, and the bite – Who knows?! And it was always the strangest things that did chomp down, for the most random elements popped up amongst those buildings (containing, as they did, after all, all possibilities). But lately the line was slack, and the fisherman kept falling asleep. Maybe, he thought, a new kind of bait that was needed. So he affixed his hook and cast it off the bridge, towards the light, and waited, patiently, hoping for a catch. With his dreams gone, there was now only expectation left to keep him company.
As he crossed the bridge, he tossed his dreams into the passing river. 'You are free – free to join the rivers, free to join the seas!' he shouted. Once they had landed on the surface of the water, however, his dreams did not seem to be going anywhere. 'Go, let the waters' take you on their course, like a wandering monk, like a drunken boat,!' he yelled. Still, they did not budge.
Peering down through the night air, he focused on his dreams. Yes, there they were, sitting stationary on the surface of the river. 'Well, they must be getting waterlogged at least. They can't just sit there static forever.' But as he continued to wait, they continued to sit. 'Damn you, you have your whole future ahead of you! To the Oceans, to the Seas! Why, I wish I was a dream, cast on a evening into a passing stream, to have fate take me where it wished!'
The dreams, however, were not moved by his speech. In frustration, he left, muttering to himself all the while.
But, the next day, when he returned, there they were, still sitting in the midst of the river. He started to redden with anger, but quickly forced himself to regain his composure. Passersby, of whom there were a few, occasionally stopped and pointed at the dreams, sometimes conversing with each other regarding them. He took pains to reveal that they were not his.
Late that night returned to the bridge. His pockets were loaded with stone, and he threw the rocks, one after the other, at the dreams, attempting to dislodge them, but having no luck. Infuriated by their reluctance, he climbed down to the river bank and, picking up a long stick, tried to forcibly disjar his dreams and send them downstream. They were none-too-close, however, and he had to lean over the water to do this. On his third try to jab them, he toppled over into the water, and found himself covered in silt and muck. Finally admitting defeat, he splashed over to his dreams, and shoving them into his pocket, returned to shore and, thence, home. His dreams, it seemed, were not done with him yet.