A dream is a plaited line through time,
Tied around my waist and cast into my essence,
A sacred Manaia finds & binds the end,
To a giant fish swimming in a future,
Where my dream has already unfolded.
The slack drains from the dripping line,
Drawing my waka forward from my centre,
Across a mirrored surface of higher dimensions,
That I can barely sense at all.
Many dreams, many plaited lines,
Drawing me deeper into my essence.
The journey isn’t across an ocean,
But down a whirlpool, a vortex,
A conflux, a kaleidoscope,
Of fortune and experience,
Concentrating!
I do not have to eat all the way down to the bone of the dream.
I can scent it on the horizon and,
Detecting only flavours of the past ask,
Do I want another taste?
Other dreams are towering fortresses,
Wombs around a wounded child.
Heal, forgive, and let go the lines,
To my ancient anchors.
At this point in my life there are millions of futures radiating out from my centre. Most of them are tragic or trivial, deriving from my own ego and insecurity i.e. becoming a narcissistic billionaire with a sham marriage to a supermodel. Other futures are implanted by something I thought was cool as a child, like owning an Aston Martin and pretending I’m 007 (years old maybe).
Thankfully, some of the futures are wonderful. Full of love and life, peace and meaning.
I imagine walking hand in hand with my daughter. She’s telling me all about her classmates and their pets. As we walk we sing silly songs and laugh, or kick pebbles on the path that catch our eye. When we get home she runs to her mum and is swept up, covered in a hundred kisses. They are my dream.
31 May 2026, Butterscotch piña colada.
