What should happen when someone begins writing? Do thoughts congeal at the slightest nudge of a person, thing, or experience? Ok, so they might. The thought process is one of the most interesting mysteries of the human mind. What else could prod anybody to waste one's self over two bottles of gin and a grape?
We all smart from any detractions anybody might tell us. Be it our friends or enemies. But when our works start barking at us - accusing us of incompetence, denying us the pathway to intellectual gratification - you can't help but curl up in the corner, gibbering like a deprived monkey.
Speaking of detractions, some people can only take so much bad impressions. With proper training, however, the resistance level seems to improve. Take me for example. I'm a featherweight in this field. Used to be a wimp.
Bruce is being an ass right now.
Jigs just hit another nerve of my spineless back.
Tenjo Tenge is eating up my mind, and dreams are becoming more and more frequent for some reason.
And so now i dive back in, head-first, into my reality.
diiiiiiiiiiiive . . . . . . . .
The zeppelin is believed to be the utmost wonder of all worlds, and for good reason. Though the dirigible is massive, the zeppelin defies all known physical laws; it darts through the skies at the speed of a gunshot, and navigates between the realm of the real – and the realm of the imaginary.
A glimpse of its façade is enough; the grandoise design of the machine, the sleek black of the iron walls, the golden gilding, the ubiquitous engine at the hindquarters of the ship, silent despite the continuous combustion. It is a small paradise. This machine is luxury itself.
There are, however, isolated streaks of chain lightning coursing through the ship’s skeletal frame every now and then. The bolts would emanate from the engine, travel through the ship and then through the gargantuan balloon, convalescing finally at the tip of its nose.
It gives the impression that the machine is falling apart.
What is the zeppelin of burning dreams? What is its purpose? What is its destination?
***
The foremost spot is the dirigible’s tiny bridge. Therein stands the captain of the zeppelin, an ageless and formidable weretiger clad in a fur coat. No one else enters the bridge save him; beside the wheel is a wall of communication pipes where he issues all his commands. Piloting the zeppelin is his curse; if you were to see him up close, you would see that his aged face is lined with creases from an eternity of turmoil. His azure eyes hide within them aeons of untold knowledge, most of which would never see the light of day. For the tiger, his purpose is the purpose of the zeppelin. Where the airship is the will, the tiger is its herald.
What this will is remains a mystery, even to most of the crew. Of course, there are stories.
One, especially, stands out. It revolves around the retention function of sentient minds. You see, there is a certain fixed capacity of memories that a being can retain. These thoughts, those bits of dormant impulses – memories long left untouched – and those that had been branded by the mind as automatic, is the water in an ever-filling rainbarrel. The nutrients at the bottom of the barrel, the accumulated grit, the new, dense rainwater, these are retained. Older memories are less dense, and fill the top of the barrel, periodically spilling over the edge as more information is added into the container.
If the mind were a vast plain of chaos, this memory-barrel held the logic, the order, of thought. The contents were sought by wild dreams and nightmares that roamed freely in sleep for sustenance. If only so much of the memories overflowed, the creatures of chaos are starved. Since the beasts’s bodies are made of the same electro-impulse as the contents of the barrel, they fight among themselves, eating the defeated creatues afterwards. This way, the number of nightmares is kept in check.
But the time will come where the barrel will be too full to accumulate the excess. If the amount of the dreamstuff spilling over were to increase, the danger lurking nearby will get more of their fill; the balance will be ruined. More and more of these creatures will survive. When they have progpagated enough to tip over even the enormous mind-vessel, the danger to the host body is immense. There is no sentience without rationality.
This, then, is where the zeppelin’s duty lies; after all, it caters only to those whose dreams and nightmares have begun to control their lives.
***
The zeppelin exists simultaneously on all planes. At the physical plane, it is usually hidden from plain sight, appearing only to a select few. Assume that you were one of the people who – unkowingly – had a ticket for the zeppelin. One of these days everything around you shall seem to warp into itself then slowly freeze, as if time had stopped; in front of you is the dirigible, its rope ladder down. At the bottom is the tiger. He will then escort you into the zeppelin, where you will be wined and dined by its crew and your fellow ‘guests.’
In the realm of dreams, the zeppelin will be busy with nightmares. One half of the crew will be busy draining the excess – those absorbed by the body as muscle memory – from the barrel. The other half will be busy manning the dirigible’s weapons system. There will be nightmares to destroy as the barrel is drained of nomenclature.
***
There are many who welcome the zeppelin as a chance to take a break from the grind of living. These people emerge from the excursion refreshed, ready to take on new experiences and troubles. They have been momentarily saved from a very unpleasant end.
Of course, there are those who choose otherwise. But comme ci comme ca; the zeppelin must go on with its duty, host-permitting or not. The cycle has been so engrained into the lives of the zeppelin’s crew, into even the most insignificant plank aboard the dirigible, that it is unthinkable to put it off even for a few hours.
In a relaxed state – hereforward referred to as within the zeppelin – the individual’s mind is malleable. Memory can easily be sifted; the relics can easily be removed. Within the zeppelin, your safety is unquestionable.
When the zeppelin begins its bombing runs on an unprepared mind – those without the dirigible – the danger is high. There is no memory sifting here since there just isn’t enough room to maneouver, not enough time for the procedure. Instead, the zeppelin drops a humongous bomb on the plain, destroying everything in sight, including the rainbarrel and all its accumulated memories.
They will then put in place a new barrel. Water will still flow into it, since learning and remembering is continuous so long as the mind is there. But the individual is now no more than a vegetable. What little muscle memory is left will not even matter, since everything that has been learned from birth is removed. There are things the mind cannot relearn in adulthood.
In short, those that choose not to board the zeppelin have consigned themselves to a terrible fate; the total loss of their memory.
***
Slowly – as the zeppelin tirelessly goes through the same routine over and over again with very little breaks in between – it will inevitably begin to fall apart. The tiger expects this, since he is as weary as the ship itself, both of them waiting for that moment when the zeppelin’s old age finally gives way to the wear and tear of time.
And the time is near. You see, the streaks of lightning coursing from the engine to the hull aren’t just static bolts. They are sure signs of the dirigible’s impending doom. One of these days, the engines will give way, destroying the hindmost quarters along with the crew and guests in the immediate area. Fires will sear through the zeppelin. The Zeppelin of Burning Dreams shall finally give testament to its title.
At the end of things, the tiger will calmly guide the dirigible into the crash landing that will wipe out everything within it. In seconds, the superstructure will disintegrate into debris charged with the energy of lost impulses, with the life-stuff of dreaming. Those who see the dirigible’s grave will stop and think, fondly, of the dirigible that, at one point in their life, had rescued them from a terrible fate. They will also shudder.
For when the zeppelin is no more, there will be nothing that can save us from being destroyed by our dreams.
- a tribute to Neil Gaiman's The Sweeper of Dreams
