Perchance to Dream.

The house stands on a hill behind iron and tangled briar.

Below the house, hidden by trees, run the caves. Many memories are stored there, some are forgotten and buried, others secret and not yet understood

Though many people search the caves for treasure, they will never find any. They are looking in the wrong place; it’s in the house where the treasure lies.

Inside there is no outside, only time and that time is ancient, and the time is now.

The walls of the house were hewn from stone a long time past; the stone is cold but fires light the rooms though you must stand close to feel their warmth.

Some have stood too close and the fire burns within.

Those fires will never die and not even tears can put them out.

The ancients guard the house; some watching from the hills others are close at hand – in river, lake and meadow.

There is a secret room where only truth can enter - though fools believe they may; they will not find it and madness will be their fate.

The stairs are not of stone, maybe not of this place but another - for at night’s morning they are full of whispers.

Sometimes the whispers sound like promises, sometimes like questions but never like the wind. The wind does not come here.

Only the silence.

If you turn away from this house there will be no place to rest, ever.

If you enter you will be lost.

And blessed.


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