Also One Person Dreaming

Lyrics

I was small.
Smaller than the last digit on a silver clock.
A comma in a sentence about forgetting.
The room was a perfect cube of polished chrome.
I shrank until I was a flaw in the mirror.
A single point of dust that could see everything at once.
Then the point became the world. The room was inside me now.
I tried to push back.
Felt my edges strain against the geometry.
The walls were a library of reflections, each shelf holding the same me, resisting.
The corridor of my own spine stretched to an identical door.
And a voice, not my own, but from inside my bones, said:
Let go. Just stop resisting.
And the floor turned to mercury.
I became the silver river.
You flowed under the door that was yourself.
Each transformation is a homecoming.
The liquid lost its memory of form.
I was a vibration. A long, sustained hum in a hall of pillars made from sound.
The sound had a name. Wednesday. No, the name was Thursday.
I tried to check. To find my hands to count the fingers.
But my hands were just chords of impossible light.
I bit down on the note and the note bit back.
The air tasted of static and old books.
And the echo, the index of my own body, whispered:
Let go. You have stopped resisting.
And the walls turned to vapour.
I became the silver river.
You flowed into the sky that was yourself.
Each transformation is a homecoming.
The single note cracked.
It broke into a flock of starlings made of mirror-shards and light.
A thousand silver birds climbing through a sky made of library shelves.
Each wingbeat was a page turning.
Each birdcall was a fragment of the first sound.
Flying through the catalog of what I used to be.
They sing together. We sing together.
They know they are the shattered note.
They know they are also one person dreaming.
I am the birds.
I am the flock that remembers being the sound.
I am the dream dreaming itself awake.