What Hath Brought My Dreams Of Late?

I have, for most of my life, dreamed in color; the manifestations a canvas of pastels and oils, charcoal and ink. The paints and hues run together in shadows and flirt with the edges of my reality. Imagination, the residue of a dream as it began to overtake the waking hours of my being, has been the ever observant eye that pieces together the embers of each glowing image that burns through my vision.

Greens and blues and flakes of obsydian. My mind is jaded, I have not the ability to see in just blacks and whites, nor the desire to replace the world of a million shapes with the straight edges of a square or the sharpness of a lustrous blade. With a universe of geometric shapes, infinite colors to explore and a mind so open to reception, why still is it so difficult to understand and percieve that which is generated within the confines of my own mind? What warnings, what messages, sewn together elegantly out of the silky fabric of smoke, is the mind trying to communicate? Not a night past, the dreams of my restless psyche were filled with the soft emulsion of explorative sexual deviance and voyeuristic adultery.

The sin, an extension of the self? A foretelling of wants and the events not yet come to pass? A connection to the subconcious attempting to repair itself to the elements the other woman represents? Almond eyes with auburn tan, curves and curls, a golden brown effigy to the erotic taboo. I don't have the answer why, all I have is a fading swirl of colors as they receed back into my soul and the silk of smokey threads of grey to question. I have always dreamed in color, maybe next time I'll hear music.