* In Sommnia * Where Fantasy and Reality Be *
Im In Sommnia
Many are there
Crowds of shades and colours
Jostling one another
Pushing one another
In chaotic orderliness, still Confusion...
With or without filters?
Reality or illusion?
The balance forever tipping
This way and then that...
Never stopping, continues rocking
In the dark the clock goes on ticking
The busy trainstation of Sommnia
The giant clock goes on ticking
The crowd changing colours
The trains of thoughts arriving
The trains of thoughts departing
The crowd gathering monentum
The crowd falling back
In the dark, in the chaos of Balance
Where reality and fantasy be
Merging, converging, and the crowd goes on surging
While the giant clock goes on ticking...
In the place called Sommnia.
~by Faith 2005~
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I find myself back In Sommnia.
Everything. Has. Slowed. Down.
The giant clock that dominates; high up on the wall, suspended over the wide arch that is the entrance to the busy train station of Sommnia; it*s second hand barely moves. Stuck in limbo - quivering - you can*t notice the second hand move: stare long enough at it and you wonder if it*s your imagination moving it...
The second hand is taking an eternity.
Seems like everything has stopped. The trains of thoughts arriving and the trains of thoughts departing. But are they? Due to the extreme slow pace all motion seems immobile. The crowds of colours are quiet halting ripples, stuck in a cycle they*re unable to complete to then move forwards. Hence everything: a sort of blur; a sort of convergence of colours, images, smells and sounds. And emotions - fear, desire, courage, loss, hope... - dense and dominant. The announcement over the loud speakers is incomprehensible. At least we haven*t slowed down to match the slow extremeness of the giant clock (yet?).
The busy train station of Sommnia seems to be underwater. Are we drowning?
Time almost given up.
The busy train station of Sommnia ground almost to a halt.
But I feel the pressure; I feel Sommnia*s pressing need and determination to move on, to accelerate unrestrained, and my head feels like exploding.
Fear - an urgency - a need that must be met or...
The end of everything?
My own movements are slow on a parallel to all that is presently Sommnia: is like tredging through thick treacle mud. When I can put a foot forward. Everything, everyone on a par. One level. There is a kind of united harmony to that. Odd.
But this has to change. It has to go back to what and where it was before.
Then, suddenly - like a razor-edged blade slipping at once through butter - I find myself running, having somehow broken free. Yet while all around me is still imprisoned in the halting cycle of time. How can this be? Anxiety clutching me as I run along the platform - but where or whom am I running to? Somehow I will know the answer to that question when I come to it. Everything in good time. As everything has it*s place in time. Tis the precedent order of things: The chaos of balance.
I am running while all those around me blur and transcend. Sights, sounds, smells unified, now indistinguishable. All my senses razor-sharp.
I am running, easily dodging the numbers in the crowds: I want to laugh out loud; it*s child*s play!
And then I see my journey*s end: the person I am running to: where my journey begins.
The Station Master is sombre and tall, navy-blue uniformed, complete with cap; he is smoking a pipe. Beyond and wise. The smoke from the pipe drifts languidly upwards, then bursting like fireworks into coloured rainbow clouds. It*s very pretty. The Station Master of Sommnia must stand well over 9 feet, he is looking down at me, and I feel insignificant and small.
"Your train has arrived." He says. His voice is soft and gentle, but there is a firmness to it that makes you feel you wouldnt ever want to argue with him.
In the other hand he holds a large brass clock on a chain - attached to his waistcoat. I stare at the clock face of this and realise with a start that it is ticking normally - I spin round to spy the time on the giant clock of Sommnia but the time there is still as before, almost unmoving.
How can this be? I want to ask, but my train is arriving. Not like the other trains of thoughts, arriving or departing, but arriving in normal time; arriving on time. But it seems to fly against the stagnant background of Sommnia. The screech of its powerful wheels and brakes, the steam billowing out like that of the Train Masters pipe - only much larger clouds like mist, and the steam fills my nostrils and I feel nostalgic. The good old days. The days that are so old they are forgotten.
The Train Master opens the carriage door and I slip inside.
It*s like going back in time. The carriages are separate compartments with doors on each. Wood and brass and metal; wax polish, tobacco smoke, ladies perfume, coffee. But this train is empty. Not a sound to be heard, other than that of the train being stoked; not a person to be seen, other than those - I see out the window - in the crowds of colours on the platforms.
I find a compartment at the back. It is soothing to sit inside; it feels like coming home. The wax polish smell and the smoothness of the worn wooden bench. How many have sat in this very spot before me? Above me are wooden racks for holding travellers* things, but I know somehow, its not what they really are. Yet the carriages are used.
The Train Master gives the signal, and the train begins to move.
Inside I am hoping that everything will be well In Sommnia.
Im looking out of the window, at the crowds of colours, seeing their faces. The look of hope on all their faces. The train gathers speed, I catch the face of the giant clock and I think I saw the second hand just tick.
A complete second.
Copyright © 2005 Stephanie Faith
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