Things need not have happened to be true. Tales and dreams are the reflections of the shadow-truths that will endure when mere facts are (incomprehensible - mysterious - horrible - terrifying).
Most fiction tells us that every being with a level of conscience dreams.
You dream, don’t you?
I think dreams settle the mind. Like how shaking a bucket full of pebbles and sand settles it - it becomes more stable, ordered, perhaps? Then you can see how big your pebbles are - what color are they. You can pick them up, see the patterns on its surface, or break them apart to see what calcified remains of prehistoric beings remain after laying dead for a millennia. It is ok to sift through the bucket, throw things away, break them into pieces if you need to - don’t worry - nothing is truly broken, or lost in dreams.
I don’t know why I talk so much. It might be because that I am afraid. Terrified, actually. Frozen to my very bones in a debilitating paralysis of anxious anticipation.
But you know, I have been always anxious and anticipation of things never helped until the moment of their actualization.
Human mind, in its celestial complexity, is a collection of systems and mechanisms acting and checking on each other and is very prone to mess-ups. I tend to avoid decisions and let them be made on their own for this reason.
Though, I trust my dreams. I know they are doing what I couldn’t when I was awake. But you know, we usually don’t remember any dreams, right? And even if we do, they seem to be stored in a different part of memory, like a paper made out of cotton candy, instantly blurring and dissolving when exposed to the moist of the waking world. Only the feeling remains.
“I had the most exhilarating dream last night - I wanted to tell you - I think I was in a dormitory in, old England perhaps? But it- it’s gone now. I was so excited to tell you…”
Or lingering feelings of dread, that make you (well, at least me) pleased to be awake for every once in a while - that what I felt wasn’t real, it is good to be back from the dreamlands.
I hate to like oxymorons. (I am a clever moron, I enjoy to think, desperate to prove my wit, but should go off rolling down a cliff before another pun rolls through my keyboard.)
Waking dreams is such an oxymoron. It is not a dream if you are awake and it is not being awake if you are still dreaming. I talked about bunch of non-sense about dreams settling the mind, right? So - a waking dream is when night, the you that is not you, creeps into the day, where you, that you think is you, operates.
So why do they cross the border? I’m not going to say some fictitious fantasy like - it is trying to give you a message in a mystical fashion? Not that non-sense. It is probably due to some botched reboot of the mind where some systems of (acting, factor) and restraint can properly say good day.
But if you were under so much psychoactive medication like I was and smoking a proper fuckton of weed everyday, dreams are long gone. I think I am still dreaming when I sleep, but whatever it is trying to settle is already been pulverized into dust by the activity of medication.
So… much… talking. Before my paper of candy dissolves into nothing, I should tell you why I am so terrified. And why it has to do with my dreams.
And why I am trying so hard to make up a logically derived reasoning for all this.
I, my dream, will be here for an instant, then I will be gone.
Bear with me.
I remember.
I was in a dormitory, in old England.
In a Harry Potteresque setting - even though I can’t tell you how I keep a grudge against Harry, but that is another story and I have rambled enough already.
This I have written in a rush, without applying much thinking to structure or anything - it was an honest free flow. I will try to edit if I see necessary and let you have the next part if you appear to be interested.
Wish me luck. Not that it will help.