three nites ago, under the full pink moon, i had another lucid dream––tell me what this means…
i find myself suspended within a rarefied, almost utopian vertical space––a multi–tiered climbing academy of such staggering opulence that it transcends the genre of ‘gym’ altogether––converging on something else entirely, like a private, world–class sanctum of athletic ascendance, reserved for an exalted and vanishingly select echelon. every surface gleams with intention––every line of architecture suggests excess and neurotic precision––as though cost became laughingly irrelevant forever ago…
from the highest floor i occupy a position not of exertion, but of quiet, appraising dominion––perched somewhere in the superstructure’s empyrean, at a balcony vantage overlooking the ascent of others, and beyond that, the skyline of an adjacent city dissolving softly into light..
through a vast aperture in the structure, a sheer rock face rises––part natural, geogenic formation, part contrived, anthropogenic construct––a vertical proving ground where climbers test themselves against curated peril. among these athletes, i make out the distinct physiognomy and aura of tom cruise, ascending with effortless precision, ostensibly untouched by the contingencies that bind ordinary anatomies. though he is accompanied by a safety harness, he does not rely on it––his discipline appears total, almost preeminent..
he reaches the summit––my level––and rather than dismounting onto the adjacent platform, he remains suspended in a state of poised stillness. his climb complete, his purpose apparently dissolved, he lingers there in a state of quiet abeyance, tethered yet inactive––as if the culmination itself has emptied the act of meaning..
my attention drifts––the space grows diffuse, liminal, briefly populated by other figures, then emptied. i return to the balcony under the impression of solitude, only to realize that he never left. he is still there, suspended, resting within the tension of his own apparatus, his legs wrapped tightly around his rope..
then, not long after, his voice––intimate, unguarded, vulnerable––rises with a strange, pensive clarity: ‘i love you, kelly’..
and immediately after that utterance, i hear the sound of release––the tension of his harness giving way, lines slackening, a body falling..
moments later, the finality of impact––the most horrific thud i have ever heard––echoes upward from a distant, cold mezzanine..
i stand there, suspended in uncertainty, not of what happened––but of why. was it a failure of attention––a fleeting lapse in an otherwise perfect system..
or was it a deliberate, quiet, unannounced decision to let go. self–erasure..
the dream offers no answer, only the sepulchral echo of his body within hallowed, opulent confines––and an existential purgatory renascent..