The following story has been taken from dreams and states of hypnagogia. None of what I am about to describe is meant to correspond with a definite spiritual reality. But, with that being said, these worlds, though they may exist within dreams and imaginal fantasies, are more real than they may initially seem. Because of this, I hope that you enjoy this story and, if you would like to share any of the realms you have visitied through dreams and states of hypnagogia, please leave a comment or write to me at “email@example.com”. I hope you enjoy this story!
Beyond The Desert, Beyond Semora; A Lost Moment
Within the invisible dreams and decaying memories of our world, there is another world. This world is just as real and lifelike as our world, and yet, many of us are precluded from seeing it, from experiencing it, and from being within it.
Within this world, there is a narrative taking place. It is a narrative with an innumerable series of individual pieces and players, all in a state of entanglement and disarray.
To describe this narrative, would be a task of exceptional difficulty; a task that I am not up to. Instead of describing this narrative, I will instead describe, in language that I know will resonate with you, the shape and form of this other world.
Much of the world exists in a state of rootless stagnation; a vast and boundless desert. Within the dunes and wastes of this desert, there are caverns, temples, and entire cities. These are all found within the endless depths of the desert, for the desert is a force that has overtaken empires and civilizations far greater than the ones you and I inhabit.
To explore the infinite catacombs of memory and thought, would be a fruitless task. Or, some would seem to think. But, in truth, there are Warriors who understand the value of diving into the once-lucid dreams of men and women who once had dominion over the desert. Warriors such as Amara Of The Source, who’s story is best reserved for another time.
Warriors, such as Amara, are well-versed in the desert, for they have experienced the sensations of thirst, hunger, forgetfulness, and illusion; they are well-versed in the forces of the desert. But, as such, they are well-versed in circumventing those forces, in pursuit of their intention, and where it leads them.
Through the Warriors, and their Invisible Guild, thousands — perhaps, hundreds of thousands — of maps and notebooks have been created. These documents, written on thick sheets of paper that come from the trees of Semora, describe spaces and moments that go beyond the spell of the sensuous.
Within these maps and notebooks, the Warriors, and those who care to know about such things, have been able to explore and experience the never ending tapestry of memory and dream that thrives underneath the endless desert.
Throughout the interior of this tapestry, there are vast networks that connect the entirety of the desert, and its forgotten dreams and decaying memories. These are networks of locomotives, built out of cogs, gears and biological material that is unknown to all but those who once inhabited such a land. There are networks of thought and sound, connected to languages and principles that exist within Holy Books that have been lost to Time’s Ocean. There are networks that consist of doorways and passages, each one linked to a vast machine intelligence forged within the Suns Of Athirah. And yet, each network is but a mere fragment of something greater than itself; a mere fragment of the infinite depths of the desert itself, and, in turn, one’s own consciousness.
For, you see, this desert is a space aligned to the Infinite Consciousness within the men and women of the world. It is a lucid place, home to that which is invisible to us, and that which inevitably to stagnation and forgetfulness.
Those who inhabit this desert are of many sorts. Some, were born in the desert, and will die of the desert. Others, have fallen into the desert through their own metaphysical journeys; the soul leaves the body, and in doing so, it may fail to come back.
While the rewards of such a world are certainly grand, the desert is no utopia, and it is certainly no place for those who wish for a home.
Within the desert, there is a canyon. This is a canyon home to insects of extraordinary proportions; machine intelligence’s that have been lost to the Suns Of Athirah, and its rays; of haze, dust, and faded light; as well as temples that once belonged to those who loved the ocean and sky.
Journey far enough into the canyon, and there is a mesa. This is a grand mesa, and within the mesa, there is a jungle. Inside this jungle, within the dense foliage of trees, mud, and bushes, there is a spire. This spire is made of glass, and its appearance is nearly indistinguishable from that of a Huicungo tree. Underneath the glass spire, there is a small opening.
Venture into this opening, and crawl through the mud and filth that the tunnel consists of. It is not a pleasant experience, but in entering this opening, and crawling through the long and winding tunnel it contains, you will find yourself on a beach.
On this beach, there is white sand, a blue ocean, men and women going about their day with joy and excitement, and the sharp glint of the sun, piercing across a veil of formless light and the absence that it must, inevitably, generate.
This is the land of Semora. This is a land that exists beyond the desert, beyond the dream and beyond the memory, yet just as much a part of those memories and dreams as the desert is. Semora is no utopia, yet its charm and beauty wash away the anger or hatred one possesses.
In the land of Semora, there are islands, archipelagos, jungles, and forests that hold extraordinary wonders and secrets. For Semora is the land of secrets,; the land of memories that were observed once, kept inside, and then tossed away without conscious recognition or thought.
Throughout my travels, I have visited Semora seven times. Describing the beaches of Acala, or the wonders of Amathika and her magnificent jungle, would certainly be enjoyable, yet deeply contrived.
Instead, I am choosing to describe the Photograph Catacombs; a tired name for a place beyond the figments that language can only dream to conjure.
Within the Photograph Catacombs, there are vaults and chambers that consist of stacks and stacks of photographs. Photographs of faces, words, symbols, sunsets, sunrises, bodies, and a city. Every stack of photographs has a picture of the same city, it is a city that I can only describe as “Lux”; pure light, a light that cannot be extinguished, only savored.
In the city of Lux, there is the light, and there is the perpetual motion of the light. And yet, there is darkness and shadow, for the light is in perpetual motion, a generator of energy and spirit, that comes directly from a void of absence.
When we pass on, to the other realms of Elohim, we fall into Lux. For we are all light, we are all beings of infinite light, and it is our perpetual motion — within dream, memory, form, and thought — that holds the key to our own journey.
Throughout the years, my time in the Photograph Catacombs has only increased, with the ages, for there is a truth that is held within the catacombs; a truth that I cannot reveal.
But, I will give you a hint. This truth, it begins with “I Am”, and it ends with “You Are”.