In the dream, the carousel turns inside a quiet room,
morning gathered in its ribs.
Each round is a seed lifted into view,
each seat a different voice,
each voice a doorway that opens by a shade.
I touch the text and it meets my fingertips—
letters raised like warm ink,
as if language has weight,
as if meaning can be held.
I wake with the wheel still spinning behind my eyes.
I set it on the worktable of daylight
and try to dream it forward,
threading the same hush through waking hours,
listening for the click that means yes.
The studio answers in small refusals and small gifts:
light that loops almost clean,
the seam where it restarts barely visible,
a room that builds itself beautifully
then forgets its doors,
a voice that arrives like honey
and drops mid-sentence,
leaving a bright seam in the render.
So I keep tending the motion—
cutting the silence gently,
stitching the breath back into place,
letting the dream teach my hands
its patient grammar.
Days later, it returns on its own.
Warmth spreads across my back
like sunrise finding the edge of a horizon—
supportive, steady, unmistakable.
My whole body smiles, quiet and wide,
as if the carousel has found its track
inside the waking world.
For one minute, everything turns easily:
seed, voice, light, soft geometry—
the first moment gathered gently into motion.
And suddenly I can feel what the dream was saying all along:
beginning lives here—
in warmth, in backing,
in the small, faithful turn
that says yes.
Explore: the Carousel → Carousel Entries → more Practice in Motion
Explore more:
Studio Shorts . Makari Shorts . Panoma Shorts . Stomari Shorts . Mabst Shorts
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