Here's another sleeptime story that came from a dream. In it you will meet a special friend that I was privileged to have for a while, as well as accompanying me on a strange and wonderful journey along with another friend, somewhat mysterious.
Somewhere between waking and sleeping on our journey towards the unfathomable deep, there comes a thin moment where we have one foot in the waking world and the other is in that other world where we relinquish conscious control.
Pausing here and straddled between two planets that drive one another like gears, the attentive traveler will notice a narrow door only wide enough to sidle through.
This is the border of sleep, where imagination and reality are braided together, a chasm in the crust of consciousness, venting the hot pumice of imagery into the irresistible magma of narrative.
Welcome to episode 54 of Stories from the Borders of Sleep, curious tales from bordersofsleep.com created and voiced by your host, Seymour Jacqueline at bordersofsleep.com website.
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The soundtrack for this week's episode is by Carrie live from the album Rising above, which is available from magnitude.com so if you are ready to journey with me, then I shall begin the boat going home Seymour Jacklin May I commend to you the custom of being a tourist in your home locality every now and then.
They are all on your doorstep, the things a visitor to the area would find charming or fascinating.
A wise friend said to me once, make everything you do a holiday from something else you do.
He said when he came to work he was taking a holiday from home life, and when he went home it was a holiday from work, and when he tidied the yard it was a holiday from doing the dishes.
It was in this spirit that I stepped out from my front door one morning, intending to wander down into the valley and try to see it as if I were seeing it for the first time.
I took a camera, a proper one, with a body, a lens and a mechanical shutter that made a wheezy click when it fired.
Today I was a tourist and taking a holiday from being a resident.
Now I was fortunate to live within walking distance of some beautiful scenery, and an hour or so on foot would even bring me to the sea.
Not everybody has that, but it doesn't mean they won't find many marvels unfolding before their eyes when they pay a visit to their neighbourhood.
The street where I lived led nowhere where the Tarmac ended, it turned into a narrow dirt track guarded by a couple of huge boulders that prevented vehicles from going any further.
Continuing on foot very quickly led to a path of compacted dust.
The vegetation enveloped it on either side and above like a natural tunnel, and it wound steeply downwards into the valley.