days stopped,
months slowed,
I counted 7, then years were gone,
faces turned into shadows, the air was laden,
with whispers of a place treated wrong, then came the day of the sun.
I remember the details clearly, my heart carried a relief, the machine was done humming, faces turned into shadows of broken time, clocks ticked off, taking more they could count, I stood, no thoughts, eyes stretching across the old and the new that was being birthed.
in another page I will continue the story of the day of the sun, on this page I will tell you about the days in the before.
I am in the city, escapades, searching for a book, a map on how travel between dreams. memory is a treasure, not memory of yesterday's happenings, but soul memory, stories the sun tells in dreams.
the machine is loud, so too are the prophets of the sun. through their words I remember the crowing knowmad- the traveler and the poet. I remember dreams, the navigator is born.
street 28, building number 95, the book revealed itself in a dream, book 14. the city is moving slowly through this matatu window, the noise and city smell remind me of days I didn't know. my mind is wondering depths of this mystery that woke me up in the dream, a number, 14, pulled the string. this mystery is an ancient knowing of how the dream tells stories.
the city has a strange rhythm to it, its natural rhythm is hidden deep in digitized frequencies. many timelines stacked together, you can get lost in the spiraling, that's why city folks walk fast, to catch moving entrances and exists. the city is a capsule of different eras of time, you can meet the travelers in train stations, hotels and the unseen alleys.
street 28, finally. stepping out of the matatu, grounding my feet on the concrete, the air feels heavy with stuck energy, the clouds have no rhymes. my mission is of restoration. walking down the street, my eyes searching for 95, like a puzzle, walking through a maze of restaurants, coffee and fried chips, taxis, supermarket music, offices with walls ready to swallow dreams.
my feet have this recognition of walking this street before, each step echoes a key to a door of memory, different eras. I have been here on my escapedes. building 95, it called out standing next to a crimson phonebooth. three stairs from the street then a curved brown door, it had an old small bell. doors need the right frequency for you to get into the right room. breathing deeply then ringing the bell, the door opened.
building 95 is not just a building, but a temporal library, a nodal point for the travellers, the knowmads say the building searches for you, you can't find it unless it calls you. the library gives one book only at a time.
stepping into a yellow walled circular entrance, my eyes meet an old man seated on the front of three beautiful brown doors with ancient markings, writing into an old book using a crow feather. the doors are labelled 14,15 and 16. looking up, "karibu msafiri" the old man announced gesturing me towards him, " your journey has led you here, the booked called you and you answered, door 14 awaits." he says, gesturing to door 14. "asante" I tell him as I move towards the door.
the smell of books pulling me closer to the door, there's a particular scent, golden is the word I can use, it carries warmth and wonder, it's pulling with all its might towards it. close to the door, I breathe and the door opens to a sea of book shelves. see, books are not just words, but portals into worlds-dreams.
stepping into the room, the golden scent calling my name, my feet halt from wonder. a book appeared in my hands, a green book with the sun on its cover page, no author name. turning the first page, I see 'as high as the sun, catch a frequency. 1425' written. the writing is in a strange language that I understand, the book is a story of the sun, how it remembers dreams. I will tell it to you.
