Think of life as a stream, a grand and beautiful stream if you will. It shimmers and curves. It winds boldly, sinuously through the deep, dark earth. It widens into sparkling brilliance, narrows then vanishes into the thick of the night.
Our intrepid dreamer watches from the deck of a distant ship, with longing. It bows down–her winged chariot, sails aflutter, spurning the stars’ velvet embrace.
She alights. Her bare toes caress the powdery sand. She puts one foot forward. She delves down. She dives deep. Time passes under the fretful sky.
Eventually she surfaces, disappointed. She still couldn’t reach it, that elusive Thing. Its substance continues to evade her. She returns to her ship, still dripping with wet from the river. The sails rise. Gossamer wings swallow up the twilit clouds.
While wallowing in her regret, the dreamer hears the song of a distant bird. Its breath is beautiful, sparking an overwhelming surge of both familiarity and longing.
She calls out hopefully to the lonesome voice.
“Old friend? I am but a stranger here in this land and I–“
The evening songbird stutters. Affronted by the dreamer’s interruption, it sings no more until dawn.