I floated under a vaulted ceiling because, of course, if you are going to have a weighty dream floating is key. The area surrounding me was lit by what little sunlight could squeeze through a small, rough cut window on a far wall, the rest was in shadow. I moved with the wisps of incense smoke that smelled of sandalwood, clove and oddly enough butter. And where the ceiling hadn’t crumbled or been blackened by soot were paintings—a sitting blue robed torso without its head, glyphs in a faded red circle, the scowling half face of a yellow demon, a hand in mudra, but what fascinated me most were the dust motes—lit and dancing. They brought a giddy joy. I sifted galaxies through my fingers.
My fascination with dust motes was not new. When I was a kid, with a window’s square of sunlight thrown across me and the carpet, I’d watch them. The chaotic swirls contained planets with old civilizations and between war and peace and war and peace I’d examine the fate of one microscopic person. Now as I bobbed, welcome within these galaxies, I was ecstatic and barely aware of how the dust mote worlds, the smoke and I were being pushed forward by a slight breeze.
Temple Dream—Part lll
You really keyed in on something with the dust mote memory. Reading it I was reexperiencing it too -- something like breathing in bright liquid.