Matrioshka

Here today gone tomorrow.

Here today gone tomorrow.

Here today gone tomorrow.

One brilliant flash in the long dark night, repeated endlessly. The human play, each act crystallized in eternity waiting for the laser of attention to access it, make it alive for a moment. Make it alive for a moment… in the moment it lives. This means something; this hand, these breasts, and eyes and mouth and teeth. Made in the image of what? It’s a reminder of something. This existence is made for remembrance of something… but what?

Have you ever dreamed that you were a cartoon character or an animal, or some strange creature? Or that you try to run, but seem to be stuck in place?

Funny things, dreams. Made of bits and pieces of the waking world, rearranged in the forgetful confusion of sleep. Yes, your dreams are made in your image. And you are made in the image of what? When this life comes to a close, what are you?
Is anything really happening when you dream? Are you really going anywhere? Can it be that what I long to recall is the original matrioshka, the outermost doll in which all smaller versions are nesting and riffing off of the original?