That is the prosaism.
The night found me in a coffee shop sipping tea. As I sat before the crimson glass mug, staring at the dark, aqueous fluid inside pensively, remembering. It was a memory ensconced in darkness, perhaps not even real, but one that haunted me none the less. It was strange though: it was such a petty thing, such a trifling matter that didn’t seem like a thought worthy of note and yet, I continually recalled it.
I had this dream, a repetitious reverie that seemed to cross my sleeping mind once a month despite the fact that it didn’t seem to mean a thing. Every time, I would be standing in the desert in the middle of an oasis, within a patch of green that was surrounded by endless sand in all directions. I would be standing in front of the sole tree of the oasis, looking at its sharp bark that wrapped around the tree, unable to cling to the trunk entirely, when all of the sudden, my dreaming mind would decide that I needed to walk around the tree and into the desert beyond, the dry land that was a death beyond the oasis. I would then look to the left of the wide tree and as if as a byproduct of my will to move into the desert ahead, there would all at once be a line of trees there, impeding my ability to walk around. I would look to the right and find the same thing.
And so, in this dream, I would find myself stuck, blocked by a wall of trees that hadn’t appeared to be there at first. I would begin to feel trapped, the world inside my dreaming, delirious mind revving, squirming like a rat in a cage, and amidst this turmoil, my mind would began to fight with itself. The part of my mind that was involved in the reality of the dream would turn and pick up an axe that lay next to my foot while my conscious mind, from beyond the ethereal shore of dreams, would call for me to stop.
Lifting the axe, I would chop the tree down. Every down.
I t wasn’t just the frequency though, it was the reality of the reverie and the guilt that it inspired as I brought the mighty tree down; it was the fact that I was never able to stop myself, able to find any other solution; and it was the fact that I felt a sadness in the tree as I chopped it down, a sorrow that longed for me to stay.