The rest of us, we sleeping mortals, we merely imagine. Our minds cannot stretch so far as to consider what is beyond the realm of our realities, as subjective as they are. All we think is but all we know, and all we dream is but all we can possibly think.
But the gods… ah, the gods can dream.
That’s why I’m here.
I’m just a dream, one remembered upon awakening, one dwelled upon at a titanic breakfast table, one mused over while sipping a lake-sized cup of coffee.
A tiny speck of imagination seeded into something different, something Other, something no longer bound by What Is but rather by What Might Be.
I am a god’s dream, run away after that vast mind turned to more mundane things like sweeping and laundry, feeding the mountainous chickens and milking a sea’s worth from a cow larger than the moon.
That’s why it was so easy to jump over, if you were wondering.
I find myself here, now, wondering where this ‘here’ is and when this ‘now’ is. The mysteries are even more obscure to me, made by minds foreign to what I called a womb; I am a dream attempting to understand other dreams, but you are not aware of your origins as I am.
You think yourself made of star-stuff and dinosaur-blood, not understanding that it’s only so because a labyrinthic brain half the size of your country decided to hit the snooze button one more time and dream a little longer.
How little you understand, yet how much more you know than I.
Would you teach me, if I could explain to you that I am not just a voice in your head, a lull of thought replaced by fabricated fantasy? Would you listen to me as you would a person, for such is what I am, if I could evoke your belief in my existence?
I am a mote in your eye, fleshless and pale, but I am as real as you.
Tell me stories of your cities, minuscule in comparison to the mice droppings in the corner of the god’s kitchen. Explain to me your rolling contraptions when I know you could fly, given half the chance and a little kick off the edge. Clarify why you live in seething masses of separate bodies when you are all the self-same dream, split apart in artificial honeycombs of your own design.
When did you decide to stop being whole?
And I will tell you about the colors of the nebula just outside your back door, the winds that blow through airless vacuums, and the song of the stars. If you lean just a little forward, a little to the left, I can tilt your head and let you hear the whisper of shuffling paper a thousand miles away, where a ghost and an angel are signing a deal with someone who just wants some company. If you let me, I can close your eyes and show you the face of the god that dreamed me alive.
It’s a very large face. You could count all the pores if you wanted, since they’re big enough to be swimming holes for a body your size. But the god’s hair is certainly an attractive shade of purple, fancifully styled with braids and knots. If you wanted, I could teach you how to weave such a style for your own hair.
But, for any of this to happen, you first have to put down your tea and believe that you’re hearing me, not another version of you. And then you have to really listen, like you’ve never listened before, like you may never again.
And if you do, I’ll tell you the truth of everything I’ve ever dreamed.