"The prop, the edge, the vessel and the base...currency sometimes, but not always." It always helped murmuring the bits that came in the middle of the night, when one was just getting the edges of a truly epic bit of a dream. Catching the idea was hard enough, with one's body sending the discomforted signals of being out of the warm cocoon of sheets and facing the sensation of cold air on bare skin.
And it helped to go over them again as the words bounded, rebounded and reflected off of their synonyms and antonyms... Somewhere, some many people had said the same idea, to keep a notebook handy for things like this even if one could barely manage a scrawl.
The basics caught up the the history soon enough, and that's when the pause came, with the dawning realization of how this was far too familiar. The wand/staff, the blade, the cup/cauldron and the pentacle/altar cloth...currency was anything and too mutable a form, but it was in every culture. The caribbean survival bag, the sorcerors kit and swag, thekitbag of hobos, oh and the homeless person as a powerful person had been DONE and done so well by someone else...
And by now the idea is mostly reeled in, even though there is a sense of mild disguist at the subconcious for fishing something
And in that moment, the mass of that ancient leviathan of an idea slithering past the part of the subconcious that's still operating on it's last orders and won't stop...
One could feel that concept that'd seen
cAvemen come and go and empires fall
set it's gaze upon that which had set a
anchorhook into it's many hued and textured flesh,
and laugh at the small thing trying to hold
onto it as the
line connection -snaps-
And one is left, the concious mind picking up and rejecting all that it has processed
leaving one reeling and grasping in the dim of the night
for one hold to grasp and not feel so small in the grand scheme of concepts
to crawl into the tiny comfort of the cocoon of sheets again
to sleep and dwell no more upon this.
....and in the harsh light of day all of this fades, even that deep unease in the core of oneself, leaving only those scrawlings half-legible in the notebook as a track or trail... Mere small hints and