Last night I dreamt again of the blood red sea.
This time I was onboard a boat - not on my on; there was movement around me, manoeuvres being executed, mundane tasks being performed – and the wind was getting inside my clothes, inflating them until they ballooned and carried my body over board, flying over the edge of water, where white horses were a pinkish purple hue and foam the slime on their backs.
I remember very distinctly not wanting to get my feet wet and trying to embark as much winds in my sleeves as I could, so I could rise higher and be safe from the taint.
It must have worked because I recall being lifted above the boat, which - for a brief instant - was a drakar, all wings deployed and stern vikings scanning the horizon for the edge of the world that they'd been told would engulf them all.
But a cloud passed along, bearing gulls in its folds, and I found that the boat had turned into a dragon, surveying the deep for treasures lost in battles and sunken dreams. Wild beasts in the shape of tritons were rising from the waves to bring it news. Their words carried the meaning of repairs and careen being salvaged.
As I flew away, I realized that the dark red sea had been its blood, spilled over sharp toothed rancor and bitter words. The dragon had lost its dominion over the land of living and would soon drop off reality's ledge, never to return.
When I woke up, I found a single pearl on my bedstand.
submitted at 8:27pm
25 April 2009
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