To dream something into being, to imagine it.
Would it start with you?
How could it?
You are not start.
You are a hash on an arc of ticking time.
Then whose dream is it?
The boat, the whale, the tree, the wave?
Or the paint brush that reflected them?
None.
The boat has sailed.
The whale dived.
The tree long since burned.
The wave crested and melted into a sandy shore.
And your eye in a corner, watching them come and go.
Imagining.
A lot has been said of it.
Too much perhaps.
One blink of death and the scene reboots.
You are not start.
You are start and stop,
And the light between.
