A Collection of Spectacles

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My views on dreams, as they have changed over time. 

In the beginning: Dreams happen infrequently. They are nonsensical, like collages of random scenes, carelessly pieced together. They’re meaningless to me. 

The second step: Dreams are seemingly random, but if deciphered, they reveal hidden notions I hold about myself, the people around me, my desires, my wants and dislikes. 

The third plateau (déjà rêvé): Dreams and their meanings become increasingly abstract. I’ll try to explain.

Something happens in front of me. A daily occurrence, say my friends are having a discussion. I stare, watching their faces, and like a picture coming into focus, what happens in front of me becomes clear. It transcends all we perceive reality to be and takes on a more picturesque, movie-like form. In the same way that film directors can take actual occurrences and make them more photographic, eyes that are open and receptive to the world can stare at a scene and make it more cinematic. Then, they can deem something that’s seemingly foreign to be  anything but, leading the mind to ask, “Have I been here before?”  In turn, the subconscious will provide the answer and it will rise to the surface of your thoughts with unparalleled buoyancy. The scene in question was something that was viewed before, if only for the breadth of a second, in a dream. 

A dualistic nature is revealed. The hypothesis proposed in the second step is affirmed as one purpose of dreams, but another, a more intriguing one is discovered. They are windows that, if peered into at just the right angle,  can reveal future occurrences (or rather, future possibilities). It’s just my thought, but maybe thats why it’s possible to feel as though you’ve already visited every place you still have yet to see. 

I’m unravelling, coming apart.

The plumes of a bird,

The petals of a flower,

The inner folds, 

creases

are detaching themselves from one another

my mind has come to bloom

im being honest here and nowhere else because if you cant be honest when you write then swallow ink and lead dismantle your keyboard there is no point. if you cant write even when it makes you look silly or stupid or hurt like your skins been slowly meticulously violently detached from each and every nerve ending then…theres no point in painting landscapes with words if theyre bound to be set aflame.

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One Response

  1. Claire Anne says:

    This is my favorite post. It’s true. You have to have someplace to spill your guts, it’s not like steam.

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