Sol's Dream Galleries

In Powell's dream, the air about him crackles with excitement. He sits in a royal's chair that centers a huge hall framed by the rarest gold walls, with seven pale ivory pillars, marble floors, and intricately ornate rugs woven with silver threads, and four brightly jewelled lamps hanging at the grand hall's corners- vast and holy, this heavenly chamber of wonder. Sinking deeper into a cool sofa, Powell hardly breathes as he waits. Everything all set now, his special meeting arranged weeks ago by the official authorities, Powell feels the pure current of  anticipation pulsing his limbs. He stares at the giant, regal doors directly across from him. He has so many questions for God. The most serious matters that Powell has long thought about, and prayed over. The majestic doors never open, Powell's dream ends with the sharp trill of alarm, muted rumble of downstairs traffic, a benevolent new morning filling his small room.

In Jim's dream, giant machines rumble in a chorus of staccato rhythms across a cold factory, the ringing clang of pounding metal and low drone of worn gear grinding the morning down to a fine dust of forgetfulness. His heavy glove flexes around a wrench handle as a man shouts, but Jim can't hear, raises palm to ear as his dream disappears.

Then again, there are those dreams that are lost in the spray of daylight breaking, fog filling too quickly, last wisps of scenes, fragments already soft-focused into forgotten waves, repeating as they do. Maybe dreams aren't lost, merely recycled.