He
realised that he swung in space between the two. The room and house
were a speck in the universe above him, his brain the mere outlet of a
tunnel up which he climbed every morning to put his horns out like a
snail, and sniff the outer world. Here, in the depths, was the
workroom where his life was fashioned. Here glowed the mighty, hidden
furnaces that shaped his tools. Drifting, glimmering figures streamed
up round him from the vast under-world of sleep, called unconscious.
'I _am_ a spirit,' he heard, not said or thought, 'and no spirit can
be unconscious for eight hours out of every twenty-four...!'
Slowly the sea of dreamless sleep, so-called, flowed in upon him,
down, round, and over; it submerged the senses one by one, beginning
with hearing and ending with sight. But, as each physical sense was
closed, its spiritual counterpart--the power that exists apart from
its limited organ-opened into clear, divine activity, free as life
itself....
How ceaseless was this movement of Dreams, never still, always
changing and on the dance, incessantly renewing itself in
kaleidoscopic patterns. There was perpetual metamorphosis and rich
transformation; many became one, one many; the universe was a single
thing, charged with stimulating emotional shocks as each scrap of
interpretation passed in and across the mind.
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