Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
Jasper Cricklebone
Is an infrequent visitor to Nocturna.
He has been a member
For longer than anyone
Cares to remember.
He visits the city rarely.
When he does,
He seeks the sanctuary
Of the club.
It is said that Jasper resides
In the nearby mountains,
In a crooked stone house
Somewhere above
The last reliable road,
Where the clouds come down
To knock upon his windows,
And crows gather
On his chimney pots
To exchange the morning news.
Some days leave you
With more questions than answers.
Less wonder.
More worry.
How do we turn that around?
How do we reverse the tide?
How do we see wonder everywhere,
And live freely,
Content?
Perhaps the answer
Is simply to live
One day at a time.
Not by chasing
The destination,
But by looking down,
Seeing where we are standing.
Not in the past.
Not in the future.
Buy right here,
Right now.
There are worlds behind my eyes,
Places wondrous and vast.
I seek them in my dreams,
And share them
With my waking mind.
They ask for nothing
But to be heard,
Whispered like secrets
Between family,
Between friends.
There are worlds behind my eyes,
Places beyond the Dream Sea.
Take my hand.
Come with me.
Some days I sit and hope
That somewhere in the world,
A little magic still exists—
Something capable of making
Cold science pause
And shake its head
In disbelief.
Little inspires wonder anymore.
Even the word itself
Feels worn smooth
From overuse.
The days of innocence and enchantment
Seem long gone,
As though the world
Has lost touch
With its inner child.
Yet the magic I seek
Is not found in tricks
Or miracles.
It is the magic of surprise.
The feeling that stirs
When you stand before
An ancient tree in a silent forest.
The energy that comes
From being among ancient things.
The magic of stories
Passed from one voice to another.
The magic of imagination.
I miss wonder.
I miss people
Who still believe in it.
I live in the real world,
But mine is very different
From yours.
Cordoned from the outside world by trees,
I sit,
A man beneath a blissful blindfold.
The rooms I keep are dark.
They leave no space
For distraction.
Windows cloaked in blackest velvet,
Drawn closed,
As I go about my business,
The business of imagining.
The scent of each room
Is as I wish it to be.
They look and sound
As I desire.
The artifacts of my life
Line shelves, cabinets, and walls.
Past lives and dreams recorded.
Every frame,
Every book,
Every ornament,
Holds a memory,
A fragment of dream
Extracted from me.
There is abundance here,
Yet beneath it,
Order.
Everything my eye settles upon
Serves a purpose.
As I shuffle from room to room,
Teacup and saucer in hand,
I am thankful
For the comfort and safety of
My home.
My sanctuary.
My castle.
My keep.
There are vast worlds within us all.
The mind is limitless,
Yet for many,
It remains uncharted.
Untouched lands of imagination
Await the curious traveller.
Take a moment.
Close your eyes.
Prepare your vessel.
Stand upon the shores of thought,
And when you are ready,
Set sail.
Explore the world within.
Record the sights,
The sounds,
The sensations,
Of your own boundless realm.
Make landfall
Upon those lands.
Walk their fields.
Climb their mountains.
Wander their forests.
Or simply sit awhile
With the person,
the world,
residing within.
Listen.
Learn.
And perhaps,
Among those hidden places,
You will find peace.
Then, when your journey feels complete,
Return to your vessel,
Steer it homeward again,
And return once more,
To the Land of the Waken.
Today, I shall spend the entire day writing,
Lost in my dream realm, calm, undisturbed.
Absorbed by imagination and creation,
This evening I hope to rest with a sense of achievement.
Having mapped regions of my inner self previously unexplored,
Finding deep within me, that inexhaustible well,
That great cavern of riches that must be exhumed,
Its treasures uncovered, recorded and shared.
It is currently 11am on a cool June Sunday morning,
Although my eyes are weary after an embattled sleep,
I have already crafted several memorable tales,
Birthing new lands, strange creatures and dreamy sights.
I look forward to what the afternoon brings.
Do I dare delve too far into the worlds I create?
They occupy my mind during daylight,
And often manifest with each night,
Am I venturing too far beyond the shallows,
That skirt the edge of the Ocean of Dreaming.
Here, I have control of my emotions,
I don’t expect readers to understand,
In dreaming, although still sullen, I’m not as helpless,
Not weighed down by the real world outside my door.
I’m going to visit deeper inland,
I envision a vast dream continent,
Where everything I create exists,
I will need to populate this world more,
Document its inhabitants, flora and fauna.
I’m excited by the prospect of another world,
That connects all the pieces of my scattered puzzle.
For fourteen days this June, creation has filled my senses,
Ideas gathering like storm clouds upon the horizon,
Each thought colliding with the next,
Sparking brightly against the architecture of my mind.
For fourteen days I have walked among possibilities,
Turning fragments into stories,
Dreams into landscapes,
And whispers into worlds.
The tide of stress has temporarily withdrawn,
Leaving the fertile sands of creativity exposed,
And for a fleeting moment,
The mind can breathe.
The great serpent Grimvael has retreated,
Coiling himself within his lightless pit,
His black scales hidden from thought and memory.
For now, his icy tendrils do not reach,
His suckered grasp does not cling
To old wounds and forgotten sorrows.
And in his absence,
The mind dares once more
To dream,
To imagine,
To create.
My mind is finally being nourished creatively,
Like a Newton’s cradle in motion, I have momentum,
Ideas collide,
A hundred thoughts suddenly fighting for sunlight.
I feel as though I have lingered too long in darkness,
A creative solitary confinement of fatigue,
Working beneath soul-sapping monotony,
The stress of day work loosening its chokehold.
Slowly, surely,
My imagination returns.
I can write, I can create,
I can rebuild the architecture of my mind.
The weight, the weight,
That heavy crushing upon my thoughts,
Has begun to lessen.
That sickly hunger for content, content, content,
Is subsiding.
It feels as though the tide is withdrawing,
Allowing the sands of creativity to breathe.
I know the tide shall return,
But for the first time in a long while,
I will have taken a breath.
