waking up

I am on another errant pathway leading to the center-- what is solid and what is floating evanescently in this maze of streets, in the criscrossing of steps of all the people seeking the Destination? This is a city like any other, except silently sleeping, at times people rise from their beds and walk, still dreaming, finding each other in collective dreams, or segments of dreams, then walking back into their bedrooms, their sleep chambers, only to repeat the same thing the next day, a day which is actually night. Is it getting brighter or dimmer, is it dawn or dusk? It is difficult to know, the Absolute dream keeps fragmenting into separate dreams, manifestations of self, wish-fulfillments. Will the center, the whole dream, or even just the alcove leading into the maze of dreams, ever reveal itself?

At the windhorse race, the minds of all the spectators floating and hovering up like kites in the summer air, more and more people were in attendance as it seemed finally the dream was making sense, consolidating itself into the one collective dream. Was it real?

A man in the back reading Kafka's Amerika seemed like he had been there forever waiting for the race to unfold. It was rumored that the dream was his alone, that the whole race depended on his attendance for its reality and solidity.