[The Exterminating Dream]

A man wakes in an empty room. He has no furniture, no family, only a dream. His dream is to interpret the dream of art, to capture what has been an undeciphered illusion since the day he was a fetus afloat in a placental sea.

He has no money, no connections; in fact, no one knows him. He is as transparent as the wind,  moving the ground he walks on in no visible motion to another, juxtaposed to no one. Genius isn't in his possession; nor is the influence of it; he interprets what he can, collects anything he can writer with and write on to record every fiber from this dream, tells no one because there is no one to tell. Living is not in his best interest, only to relinquish a dream into the world and move on our of it and the dream.

He is attracted to ruins photography inasmuch his life is all ruins but he's known nothing else, so he fancies not the complaint. Complacent, compliant to a subterranean existence, he takes the few hand-outs, hand-me-downs and charity that comes his way. Pride
is as paralyzing as hope; he knows if he does not eat, he cannot write, if he does not write, he cannot eat, he cannot live; the dream will allow him only an allotment of suffering until the woes must be submerged beneath his frenzy to recreate the reverie that has taken the formation of more fragments for everyday he fails to look within himself- chart the thick brush against the  thorns with his bare hands. To not light the darkness, but as an existentialist, allow the darkness to be, not to define the darkness as a philosopher, but to not defy it, as a Chameleon, as a transparent man, become apart of the darkness.

A most perilous voyage begins as all do when facing the doppelganger of themselves. Some have found him out, his dream and have taken into it, but he only takes into himself and as long as those who admire the becoming of his dream are at bay in their origins, he can remain true to his own. Coexistence is decimation, death.

He is on the verge of collapse, on the verge of madness, his shoes are are but tatters barely covering his feet, callous formed in thick layers from the stabbing of the concrete along the sidewalks. He is in full obedience living the life the dream has forced him to live, refusing to live no other way. He cannot be released from being a starving artist, cannot declare who he is because he truly doesn't know. In the realms of truth and knowledge, there are volumes to digest before one can begin to scratch the surface of truth and knowledge; the only volume that has become of interest to him, is the one he has written of the necessary torture in which the dream has expelled on him.

So he writes, but he does not write enough, he cannot write enough to satisfy the minimum of the dream's medium, the risk of everything for nothing that is the existential art he must create if he is to ever be free of the night terrors, of the hunger, of the desolate landscapes and abandoned cathedral of mind. The misunderstood hadn't even been given the opportunity to be applied to him; his drive was more important than the world's perception of his drive. As a poet turns the poem and words upon itself, his life is folded as time comes, goes without being known or noticed. It takes a character in full chaos, in crisis of its ultimate disintegration, to embark on the trail of a dream in the promises of nothing. He doesn't know that this road will take him from the nothingness that has become his very squalor, deep into the 21st century, where time forgets him, where no one knows him.