As I walk along the sand, I feel it fall then give under my weight. I see below the tracks of birds and dogs and men who ere I walked have walked beside this river too. We’re all the same, the sand, the river, all us creatures who for only a moment will stand within the light. It’s growing dark; the river roars and I can feel the cold—what joy this cold, this sand, these sights. A bridge above my head, it’s painted green, to match the trees I think—some cars drive past to interrupt my thoughts . . .
The river’s ever passing, the sand is ever falling—we leave our footprints, but they too will fade—
I’ve lost the bounds between my dreaming and my life. The one into the other flows, they mix irrevocably. I think that’s why I am alone. I don’t dream the dream which others dream and so see a world which only I and God will know. The river’s flowing by, and I am growing cold. Who writes the dream? Who crafts the world?
I turn—as like a guilty man—and wonder if I’m found. The bats are come—they snatch the little bugs out of the air. Still the river rushes on, the night, it falls, and I just want to dream . . .
. . . but one is always alone in his dreams.
Tale Told 