The Writers' Circle

Have you ever.
	.Woken from a dream, a state of consciousness so similar to reality as to render the two realms practically indiscernible. As the world conjured within the confines of your skull expands at incomprehensible pace into the world beyond your eyes, you flicker between what stands before you, and the lingering reverie of your sub-conscious imaginings: grasping at the edges of soft thin memories in the hope of clinging on to some solid sensible image. Your sensory reconnaissance faculties; scouring the concrete world for sense data and relaying it to your mind, conjuring fleeting images from the blooming, buzzing confusion around. The mind slowly awakens to its responsibilities, shaking off the settled night dust and stretching its languorous cognitive limbs, in preparation for its perpetual task of interpreting the phenomenal world. Underneath your body your skin presses against the soft green grass; the sweet, smell of early morning dew, washing the pungent aromas of natures morning into one intoxicating miasma and permeating your olfactory consciousness, vibrant oranges and yellows bear down upon your sensitive eyes, forcing them open to a squint as the morning sun, slowly revealing itself to the slumbering half of the world, scorches your fragile, confused eyes: eyes accustomed to darkness, shocked by the pain of mornings brightness. You roll your head to one side to hide your sensitive face from the intensity of the sun; the dew-laden grass beneath you brushes against your lips, wetting the dry splits. Running your tongue around the bone-dry, cracked lips, you recognise the taste of blood: that salty, dry metallic taste. The sun, slowly progressing to its midday resting place, makes you evermore aware of the cold damp earth beneath you and a chilling paroxysm grips your fragile, confused body.

The body, stiff, cold and anonymous slowly bent at the waist and raised its sleep sodden head. The torso and face bore untraceable scrapes and bruises, reflected in the countenance, wincing at each burning ache that accompanied even the most delicate muscle movement. Lengths of dark brown hair jutted and flowed without regularity, faint remnants of a parting suggested that the unkempt style was once neatly partitioned; the body bore no resemblance to civility now. Blurred shapes, colours, outlines, are all one, an immeasurable mass of sense data, filtering through the receptors and falling, falling, falling onto the hard exterior of the brain as if the tightly furrowed, pensive brow were clenching the very muscles of rational thought: the data cannot be categorised, nothing can make sense, out innate concept of unity means nothing if reason cannot divulge sense from our surroundings. 

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