A Trace of Dreams (v1.0) by Unknown Author

Author:Unknown Author
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-11-03T00:00:00+00:00

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“And now,” said grandfather,” for a change of—”

“A change?” we said, “but—”

“A movement then, backward into another time perhaps, say twenty years before—”

“When you were born,” we said, “on Earth when—”

“Call it time travel,” he said, “but remember this: no matter how dissimilar this may sound, it is less distant from the now of then than that time is from the now of now. You understand this?”

“But of course,” we told him.

Drifting. As children we are living, yet only drifting, swimming with brief languid strokes through the pale and pink liquid which slips through our pores as we swim and provides us the nourishment that allows us to survive, drifting, swimming.

Beyond the pale and pink liquid we have no exterior life. There is the vat, of course, and beyond the vat lies a world of complications and divisions. Not that we know of this.

And interior life? We are provided with that through the maze of wires that follows us through the vat, riding with us, drifting, and we glide past another particle and see that there are further wires riding there. At first the wires are silent and mysterious, but soon enough they begin to speak and we learn first fear, then anger. We are shown how to walk, never taking a step, and provided with a language, though we have no means of using it.

This is the vat. This is our life, exterior and interior, until we have reached the age of six: an interior life of mind pictures, an exterior world of pale and pink liquid. And finally, at the last, we are shown that there is yet another world beyond the vat, that in this world there are things known as eyes and that these eyes are actually Is and that each I is truly a man. It is all quite revealing.

From the vat then, up and out. Six of us are removed, breathing true air for the first time, taking steps, walking, the six of us once mere particles within the vat but now truly men. I turn to one and using the gift of my language say, “I am feeling fine.” He, also, is feeling fine. “I,” I say, thriving on the word, “am I.”

We are divided into groups of two and told that one is a Marke and the other is a Mathew. The spelling is poor—the names stamped between our shoulder blades —but the meaning is clear. We are removed and told that this is our new home, brothers Marke and Mathew, and here around you is your motherfather.

And now our lives are ruled by new forces. I am I and Marke is Marke and he runs against the four walls, beating with his fists, and crying, begging to be allowed to swim. But this soon passes, and as for me, there is another room in which a woman of great beauty describes to me worlds beyond this one. She says, “Come and walk with me, Mathew, or is it Marke?” In another

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