Deep in my dreams, a slow steady pounding echos like the footsteps of a hundred thousand ants marching in lockstep. Soldiers bound by duty and biology, marching off to war. It was not noly the pounding that permeated my dream, but this visual.
Imagine this army, stretching from horizon to horizon. Heavy clouds crowd theirs heads from the sky above, while lightning dances. The reflected light glimmers and shimmers across the carapaces, revealing to the observant eye the variety of colors that blends so normally into black.
Their uniqueness of color, everyone a truly individual palate of blacks, reds, blues, and greens, was belied by their incessant, inalterable march. Step, step, step. Pound. Pound. Pound.
Was it truly an army of individuals, or maybe it is the army that is the individual? Made up of innumerable separate parts much like the cells that create my form.
Would they ever cease their march? The pounding is maddening. I hold my head, covering my ears, trying to refrain from screaming when the sound changes, splinters. Relief is short lived, as it too often is, as my dream world is shaken apart.
~
My eyes blink open and shut as the world swims in a sea of disorientating motion. It's bad enough be woken, but being torn whole from a dream always leaves me bleary. Finally the world is still as I'm held upright and my eyes creep open against the light.
