Tokyo

I dreamt of Tokyo last night. I dream what I have seen. Lights. Fear. Automobiles. Sound. Hustle. Soft and beautiful Asian women and jet black hair streaked by light and chemistry. Not pagodas, incense, smooth granite, damp wood of Tokyo past – romantic Tokyo. Tokyo today and Tokyo tomorrow. Visual orgasm Tokyo. I have been there before and long for return. Like a fiction, the future and the past amalgamate in the crowds of Shibuya. I woke to the sound of traffic on the radio. In the terminator between sleep and life, I lay and dream of Tokyo.

I dream in colour. Red. Yellow - strong vibrant colours. Primal blue. I have no clouds in my dreams. Night. Black and wet. Or sunlight, strong and piercing. Both intense to hurt my eyes. Dream colours are more vivid than reality - waking colours. They are deep and alive and saturated. Colours make dream memories more real. I sometimes confuse what has happened in a dream and what has happened in waking life. The illusion unfolds too quickly.

I lay and dream of colourful Tokyo. It is distant and far away, but I am there. I have taken the colours of Tokyo with me. Are they stolen? Is Tokyo less now that I have taken colours away? They are mine. I selfishly hide my colours. In the dark morning, I covet my treasure from Tokyo. The fiction and colours of Tokyo are mine. Memories of Tokyo are forever with me and I will not give them back.

The sun has started to rise. Muted light, grey shapes and black shadows. Without looking outside, I see the sun crest the horizon. I rise from my bed and bury Tokyo.