Post by Trommel on May 16, 2009 22:33:06 GMT -5
There is a faraway place where the trees whisper in languages amongst themselves and the wind carries more than leaves. In this faraway place, there are many realms, within the realm. It is, in a way, this very world we live in... completed. Every story which pulses within the objects we overlook each day, is lived. The ancient castles know their histories, and the aqueducts which run beneath them break the laws of physics on a daily basis. The stained glass windows tell their stories in terms felt by all, the clouds fulfill and surpass imagination in their frolics, and the streets are paved with metaphors.
This is dreamworld.
In a forest, in this strange, terrible, beautiful world, there is a clearing by a brook. The trees reach up to the sky, and it seems to the gnomes capering beneath them that they are everlastingly tall. It is an illusion; as though you were standing at the bottom of a tall tower, and could see the pillars that ran up its side stretching to infinity. The sky above them is bluish gray, and the sun shines brightly, whitely, hard and distant. The air close, though, is warm and golden, breezes carrying strains of music about the clearing. The brook babbles, the garbled speech of an infant babe. The ground is dappled with shadows, ever-changing shadows, and the shifting patterns of dusky gray and golden green add much to the day.
On one side of the clearing, there stands a small group of gnomes, wearing brightly colored dress clothes, in shimmering, shining shades of blue and gold and white. They wear loose, floppy, beret-style hats of a darker blue, with a trim that is difficult to identify, but could best be called gild. Two are holding harps braced against their knees, playing enthusiastically, sometimes with eyes closed and lips humming. Three, more to the front, are strumming lutes, in a tri-part, more fast-paced harmony. There is one, in the center of the group, with a hollow drum, keeping a swelling, pulsing beat. There is one gnome in front of him, kneeling in between the three lute-players, playing a harmonic melody on his pipe.
The gnomes in the clearing are more diversely dressed. There are all shades and all colours, and all kinds of wear. One, dancing a wild circle around the edge of the clearing, is wearing a bright green tunic, blue and yellow pants, black and gold moccasin-boots, and a long, pointed, floppy red, white, and green striped hat, which threatens to fall off at every bob and turn. All over the clearing, the gnomes dance their own dance to the music, and the clearing seems to live its own life, born of the golden sunshine, nursed by the throbbing music, and in harmony with the gnomes. The trees look on, swaying in the breeze.
This is dreamworld.
In a forest, in this strange, terrible, beautiful world, there is a clearing by a brook. The trees reach up to the sky, and it seems to the gnomes capering beneath them that they are everlastingly tall. It is an illusion; as though you were standing at the bottom of a tall tower, and could see the pillars that ran up its side stretching to infinity. The sky above them is bluish gray, and the sun shines brightly, whitely, hard and distant. The air close, though, is warm and golden, breezes carrying strains of music about the clearing. The brook babbles, the garbled speech of an infant babe. The ground is dappled with shadows, ever-changing shadows, and the shifting patterns of dusky gray and golden green add much to the day.
On one side of the clearing, there stands a small group of gnomes, wearing brightly colored dress clothes, in shimmering, shining shades of blue and gold and white. They wear loose, floppy, beret-style hats of a darker blue, with a trim that is difficult to identify, but could best be called gild. Two are holding harps braced against their knees, playing enthusiastically, sometimes with eyes closed and lips humming. Three, more to the front, are strumming lutes, in a tri-part, more fast-paced harmony. There is one, in the center of the group, with a hollow drum, keeping a swelling, pulsing beat. There is one gnome in front of him, kneeling in between the three lute-players, playing a harmonic melody on his pipe.
The gnomes in the clearing are more diversely dressed. There are all shades and all colours, and all kinds of wear. One, dancing a wild circle around the edge of the clearing, is wearing a bright green tunic, blue and yellow pants, black and gold moccasin-boots, and a long, pointed, floppy red, white, and green striped hat, which threatens to fall off at every bob and turn. All over the clearing, the gnomes dance their own dance to the music, and the clearing seems to live its own life, born of the golden sunshine, nursed by the throbbing music, and in harmony with the gnomes. The trees look on, swaying in the breeze.