In the midst of a humid morning,
I sat in the house’s garden,
As the winds rustled
pushing and pulling the heliotropes,
I am reminded of the Weaver and his dreams.
The Weaver, a lone survivor, plowed through life’s uncertainties, un-relinquished by the weight of the world.
No demon formed would conquer him, his dreams were knitted, into trunks of trees, creating berls, if that was what had to be done.
There is so much beauty to be told.. even in the ugly.
The scribes told the world about the meticulous dreams he plotted throughout time.
The one about the water-bearer and her bouncy curls.
The one about the puppy interrupting hopscotch to play fetch.
There were no quotas to meet, or rules to follow.
The Weaver laid his dreams where they fell, sometimes landing on a missed lover’s empty pillow or the furrowed brow of a child during their fifth mid-summer’s night dream.
He did his best to plant the seeds of calm but there were nights that his despair took the lead.
Those nights, his demons ravished unsuspecting sleepers’ euphoria, turning pastel clouds to dark hellish landscapes. Sometimes the Weaver didn’t mean to do it and other times…
He wanted you to feel his pain. Turning angels to monsters and melodies to screeches. He pleads for you to “wake up!” as he loses control.
Most starry nights, the Weaver bowed to Solace. Thoughts never interrupted, no opinion contradicted.
Just the Weaver.. and the dreams he chose to plant among the sleepers.
But Loneliness.. some nights it creeps up his spine and wrangles it’s wretched fingers around his throat. Cackling and cackling as loud as it can.
Squeezing tighter and tighter, as if the Weaver is a lemon needed for lemonade.
And as the Weaver claws at his throat, slowly suffocating, helpnever comes.
Loneliness was unforgiving, relentless, a villain to the Weaver, several nights it almost took him for good..
and yet Solace.. so peaceful and serene… was his destiny. Two sides of the same forsaken token.
As wonderful as Solace was, she was unhelpful. Always unbothered by the Weaver’s pleas for help.
All Solace ever did was help the Weaver fulfill his calling to plant dreams. But the sleepers never could quite remember those. The dreams that Solace planted always felt like static..
In exchange for air to be returned to his lungs, the Weaver had no choice but to bow to Solace each time.
And as Solace does, she understood, always forgiving his ingratitudes. As his only companion, there’s not much more she could do for him.
Loneliness never hesitated to leave harsh reminders behind.
His words floating through the air like echoed whispers in a rainforest..
“you poor Little Weaver you will always be alone.
Not even those silly dreams you give to others can keep you company.
The dreams will always stay with someone else.”