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Celephais - H. Lovecraft

Celephais

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"Celephais" is an exquisite creation birthed within the ethereal realm of Kuranes' slumberous imagination, where his true identity remains shrouded in enigmatic secrecy. Born into the privileged embrace of the English aristocracy during his childhood, the dream becomes Kuranes' cherished sanctuary. A clandestine refuge from the harsh realities of his desolate existence as a solitary figure, dispossessed and estranged amidst the hustle and bustle of modern-day London.

In the twilight of his forties, Kuranes finds himself yearning for the resplendent embrace of Celephais once more. With a heart laden with longing, he surrenders himself to the whimsical realm of dreams, traversing the porous boundaries that separate reality and fantasy. Entranced by an elusive nostalgia, he embarks on a plight to rekindle the sacred connection with his ethereal muse.

With each passing reverie, Kuranes finds himself drifting further from the mundane grasp of the waking world, slipping through the cracks of consciousness into the enchanting tapestry of the dream-world. With fervent determination, fueled by a confluence of desire and desperation, he endeavors to unveil the secrets and wonders that resilience the boundless expanse of Celephais.

Through the rich tapestry of this unique narrative, Kuranes beckons us to question the duality of our existence - to ponder the potency of dreams and their visceral pull on the human psyche. As we delve into the intricacies of his journey, we witness the transformative power of the mind, its ability to fashion alternate realities, and the inexplicable allure of the unconscious realm.

In this tale of wistful yearning and transient elation, we are reminded of the intricate dance between dreams and reality, and the profound impact that the realms of imagination can have on our mortal lives. Step into the realm of "Celephais," a realm where the boundaries of consciousness blur, inviting us to explore the depths of our own fervent desires and the untapped potential of the dream-world.

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Celephais

In a dream Kuranes saw the city in the valley, and the seacoast beyond, and the snowy peak overlooking the sea, and the gaily painted galleys that sail out of the harbour toward distant regions where the sea meets the sky. In a dream it was also that he came by his name of Kuranes, for when awake he was called by another name.

Perhaps it was natural for him to dream a new name; for he was the last of his family, and alone among the indifferent millions of London, so there were not many to speak to him and to remind him who he had been. His money and lands were gone, and he did not care for the ways of the people about him, but preferred to dream and write of his dreams. What he wrote was laughed at by those to whom he showed it, so that after a time he kept his writings to himself, and finally ceased to write.

The more he withdrew from the world about him, the more wonderful became his dreams; and it would have been quite futile to try to describe them on paper. Kuranes was not modern, and did not think like others who wrote. Whilst they strove to strip from life its embroidered robes of myth and to show in naked ugliness the foul thing that is reality, Kuranes sought for beauty alone. When truth and experience failed to reveal it, he sought it in fancy and illusion, and found it on his very doorstep, amid the nebulous memories of childhood tales and dreams.

There are not many persons who know what wonders are opened to them in the stories and visions of their youth; for when as children we listen and dream, we think but half-formed thoughts, and when as men we try to remember, we are dulled and prosaic with the poison of life. But some of us awake in the night with strange phantasms of enchanted hills and gardens, of fountains that sing in the sun, of golden cliffs overhanging murmuring seas, of plains that stretch down to sleeping cities of bronze and stone, and of shadowy companies of heroes that ride caparisoned white horses along the edges of thick forests; and then we know that we have looked back through the ivory gates into that world of wonder which was ours before we were wise and unhappy.

Kuranes came very suddenly upon his old world of childhood. He had been dreaming of the house where he had been born; the great stone house covered with ivy, where thirteen generations of his ancestors had lived, and where he had hoped to die. It was moonlight, and he had stolen out into the fragrant summer night, through the gardens, down the terraces, past the great oaks of the park, and along the long white road to the village. The village seemed very old, eaten away at the edge like the moon which had commenced to wane, and Kuranes wondered whether the peaked roofs of the small houses hid sleep or death. In the streets were spears of long grass, and the window-panes on either side broken or filmily staring. Kuranes had not lingered, but had plodded on as though summoned toward some goal. He dared not disobey the summons for fear it might prove an illusion like the urges and aspirations of waking life, which do not lead to any goal. Then he had been drawn down a lane that led off from the village street toward the channel cliffs, and had come to the end of things to the precipice and the abyss where all the village and all the world fell abruptly into the unechoing emptiness of infinity, and where even the sky ahead was empty and unlit by the crumbling moon and the peering stars. Faith had urged him on, over the precipice and into the gulf, where he had floated down, down, down; past dark, shapeless, undreamed dreams, faintly glowing spheres that may have been partly dreamed dreams, and laughing winged things that seemed to mock the dreamers of all the worlds. Then a rift seemed to open in the darkness before him, and he saw the city of the valley, glistening radiantly far, far below, with a background of sea and sky, and a snowcapped mountain near the shore.

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