Occam’s Dream

Every night for months, in the solemn hour before waking, when aimless dreaming is drawn to a point of cryptic revelation, I see the white flame of burnished steel, hear swords ringing in matched conflict, and strop with my palms the molecular edges of knives honed to a fine line as blade after blade is offered to my eager hand. There is something here I desire, as I reach for the hilt, the pure, dense fact of the thing and awaken, wondering again what I am meant to grasp. Is there some hidden vein of violence in my carefully cultivated life? A need to conquer some ambiguity In pure, clean combat? Or just something that needs cutting? Perhaps the spirit of old Occam Urging me to simplify, Simplify, simplify.