The Egg, the Chant, the Silence
A dream in three movements
No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is in gilded memory.
We are the dreamers and the dreamed, the meal and the eater,
forever spinning between hunger and home.
I find myself in a mystic diner, the kind that appears only once, somewhere between midnight and morning. The kind with oak panels harvested from ancient trees, linoleum floors that shimmer like stars under wax, and a waitress in blue who doesn't speak but knows exactly what you need.
While I wait on mushroom stools, one begins to speak to me.
“What brings you across the astral plain tonight?’ It asks.
I don’t have a voice so I think my reply, “Sleep and hunger.”
“Ahh,” the mushroom replies. “The night train brings ‘em from all over. Had a guy in here from Calcutta earlier. Interesting chap. He said he was born during a monsoon so great it consumed his whole village. He and his mother survived because they were at the hospital. He’s been chased his whole life by what he calls the shadow of the tiger. Came here when he went for a swim in the Ganges and found himself at our entrance. They served him black rice with starlight ink topped with what he described as the most beautiful mango he’d ever seen.”
The mushroom stool tells me stories of other patrons.
The dancer who longed to dissolve the boundary between sound and self. To be rhythm incarnate, disappearing inside the beat until only truth remains. And when truly seen, for the audience to truly witness and experience her-to vanish and leave the viewers transformed. “I wish to vanish like smoke, trailing joy behind me. One day I will dance a Bolero so intense, the floor will burn and the audience will weep without knowing why.”
The musician who carried myth in his marrow and longed to write and sing truths that would change the world, not merely take from it, but build cultures of unity and peace.
Gardeners, athletes, teachers, writers, moms and scientists—it was always the same: patrons here sought essence: to pursue the ultimate truth of their love in life.
The pretty young server brings me an egg sandwich.
The egg—sunny side up—is impossibly perfect. The yolk is a rich, golden globe, humming with warmth. The sun-heart symbol of fertility almost levitates on its pristine and pure frame of white. I stare at it and think, This is treasure. More than food—this is myth, alchemy, a small star placed just for me.
It rests on an English muffin, crisp and browned, but I know it could be better. Something in me insists on transformation. So, with a flourish and a spin that would make a dancer proud but a magician prouder, I am in a celestial kitchen. I bake—without tools, without recipe—two small waffles, conjured from something bright and wordless. They shimmer faintly, like the scales of fish in morning light, and when I place them on the plate, they begin to grow.
Long sugary strands unfurl from them—spun sugar, or silk, or spirit—and wrap around my arms, spiraling up to my shoulders. I’m being dressed in sweetness. I don’t resist.
Then the diner is gone.
The astral tendrils enveloped me fully. Radiating and pulsing warm energy that flows through and invigorates me. My arms and shoulders tingle and grow warm before this spreads through my body.
The cocoon expands and the silvery strands become a sky filled with stars. I am the nucleus of a universe, the power infused in my moments ago becoming a force of creation. Nebula. Stars. Planets. Color and beauty — life. I am creating life!
Careful to only make the best, to give this nascent being, a soul, all the care and comfort I always longed for. And the life thrives and finds peace and happiness.
The tiny creature's joy gives me something I never expected, the contentment of being loved. Not out of obligation, but from genuine appreciation. And my universe grows and explodes with civilizations that only ever experience peace love and the joy of existence.
I am a false god. A good one, but facsimile nonetheless. My dream shifts from the creators role to a smaller moment.
I’m in an English pub now, loud and alive. The patrons are chanting in unison, a soccer cheer turned ritual, rough and joyful. The words blur but I almost understand. I watch them as one watches fire: drawn in, but unsure whether to get closer or back away.
One by one they fade away. Not the auditory presence, but visually, the room grows empty until I stand alone, naked behind the bar. Surrounded by rich wood walls and shiny brass. Bitters, Ales, stouts, porters, pilsners, kolsch, lagers— the palette is rich and the landscape begs for imbibing.
In the freezer I find a frozen stein that has a mystic quality: it never gets warm! The container, hewn from a single stone of rare mineral, maintains constant temperature just below freezing, ensuring its contents stay icy cold until consumed.
And consume i do! Stouts and lagers and ales— the night is long and raucous. I’m joined by a merry band of Irish leprechauns, well, they CALLED themselves leprechauns, but their eyes glowed amber and they smelled faintly of woodsmoke and ozone. They claim to be cousins. Each with a tale of frustration and woe at losing their pot of gold. They laugh at me when I tell them I’ve never had a pot of gold to lose.
“Yeah, your from THAT branch of the family tree.!” They all laugh. “But that’s okay, laddy, you’re a quality fellow and we’re all in that destitute bandwagon together. At least we have all the beer we can drink!!”
And we laugh and dance jigs and play tricks on patrons who come in until I see the sky starts to glow crimson through leaded glass windows, fractured into rubies.
The leprechauns all filter out, in a hurry to get home to their burrows before daybreak turns them to stone. “Oh, if she comes down those stairs and catches us, we’re toast! May your beer glass always be cold and always overflow!”
Tired, I lie down—not on a bed, but in the egg itself. Still warm and unadulterated, still the perfect work of art it was when first served.
It accepts me, soft and warm. As I sink into the yolk, I hear it whisper, “Thank you.”
I don’t know what I’ve given, but I close my eyes.
There is no falling. Only floating. Not flying, not ascending—just drifting, like sleep pulled long. All around me is white noise, a quiet so complete it becomes texture. I cannot see anything, but I feel full, as if I have finally become the meal, the offering, the treasure returned.
Epilogue:
In the quiet aftermath, I realize the dream was never about hunger or sleep alone. It was about transformation—the sacred exchange between creating and surrendering, between seeking and becoming. The egg, the chant, the silence—they are one and the same: a cycle of giving and receiving, light enfolding shadow, the eternal mystery we live through every night and every day.
#dream #reflection #essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing
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Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.
Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
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