May 19, 2020

Someone gives me the secret to the night. I leave my dungeon, enter a dimly lit restaurant, and finally meet the bald man on his table.

Resting comfortably, not eating, there is something peaceful in the man’s eyes, a reflection of his good old friend, his mentor, a selfless confidant. When I turn my head to see this source of brightness, I meet the massive dog, who enchants me with her snow-white fur that radiates a blinding light.

The dog, already the size of a female lion, starts growing bigger, every single part of its body expanding and stretching out of their accepted boundaries. Suddenly, I am left with no choice but to surrender to this majestic wool and glow.

First my fingertips, then my eyelashes, and finally the softness of the snow-white fur covers my skin entirely, letting me swim in a sea of cotton.

Before this, I am meditating in another dream, landscape changes are frequent, and my sense of reality is distorted.

The light and warmth disappear quickly. I am not down under the gentle water, not upon the clear sky. I am paralyzed in my bed. I remember the monks, I remember the heads, I remember the flags. I remember the color orange everywhere.

But what was I searching for, why was I awfully scared? There was something about a people dying. The Tibetans, isn’t it?

Meanwhile the roof starts cracking, the household is sleeping.

The bald man is wearing a sweater, he is tall and fit. Do I know him from somewhere? I guess this is the naive question we all ask ourselves while we desperately try to converse with the subconscious. The man resembles the orchestra chef in Whiplash, but he doesn’t wait for the final scene to give that proud smile. Now I visualize him better, although they don’t really matter: the faces.

The birds are chirping, I feel the relief trying to sit on my chest, I have to let it be. Will I be able to recall this feeling in the morning?

I keep hearing the buzz of my phone somewhere else. The sound comes from within the room, but certainly from another reality. We both live here: the girl who owns that phone, and me with the legs and arms under the covers. The girl doesn’t know I hear her phone, does she? Maybe she is even looking at me with her third eye. Birds chirping. It is 4.30 a.m. Are the birds early or have I never noticed before? The roof is still cracking. I need to be an awful animist for a quick second.

As I shift my attention from the roof to the terrace window, I meet the crescent of the moon, we look at each other right in the eye.

What does the moon say?

I don't understand its language yet but maybe I read too much Murakami and I am already on the other side. The moon talks to the rebels first as the seagulls don't accept this life they’re living and start stomping, a full-on uprising on my roof.

Fortunately, I am next on the moon’s list as the seagulls fall asleep and find peace. The moon, then, puts the entirety of its soul and vibration out so humbly that its energy reaches my terrace in the form of a nightmare savior. It has passed, the moon says. Let’s listen to Andy, the Headspace man, shall we? Life is good, as good as you think of it.

After the moon told me this, it left to say this to another lost dreamer, or at least that’s why I think it left me.

The birds stopped chirping. The light of the candle took control of the room again. I slept, I dreamt, I woke up.

I dreamt, I slept, I woke up.

I stayed awake, I still dreamt, I slept.

I woke up, I slept, I stopped dreaming and I came back.

After all this time, the moon looks like it has always looked now. There is composure in the air, the tranquility of an ignorant mind. Everything is back to normal, no plot-twists, no more doors to another world. But sometimes when I look closely, I still see the moon talking to me, traveling out of its body to reach me. It comforts me unselfishly, then becomes reunited in itself again. Life is good, it says, life is good.

The image on the mirror is from the day of the tsunami, the ocean is green, the sky is petroleum oil, and is this the future? We are playing on the heavy smell penetrating the atmosphere.

But again,

Life is good?

Good morning and sweet dreams.

Article Thumbnail: bassak1 / Courtesy of Creative Commons