Dream Excerpts From My Novel, "In Oneiria".

I

Paradisiacal spaces. Ugly wastelands. Unfathomable tunnels. Twisting labyrinths. Hallowed forests. Dangerous alcoves. Torturous valleys. Visionary palaces. Deadly paths. Opulent rose gardens. A field composed of obelisks. Kaleidoscopic islands. There were feelings of love, hate, and everything in between, and everything in between the “in between”. There were thoughts within thoughts, puzzles within puzzles, metaphors unfurling like glass chrysanthemums. Dreaming: it was a sheer catharsis for her—an unbridled emotional upheaval, a party for the cognitions, and a funeral for the senses.

II

We have the ability to remember only a handful of the dreams that stir in our heads throughout the night, just like we have the ability to cull only a few experiences from the “abundant experience garden” which is the waking state. We straddle the intrepid line between self-forgetfulness and self-remembrance so we can color our dreams with mystery and intrigue, intangibility and significance. When we wander too far from the line, and go off into either the desert of self-forgetfulness or the populous playground of self-remembrance, we start losing our humanness, and our dreams turn either into a lusterless ruby or a ruby too bright to touch. Somehow, with some kind of supernatural courage, we must balance ourselves on the line, and walk on it into the periphery, the unknown.

She had the ability to remember only a handful of the dreams that bounced around in her head like grasshoppers in a spellbound thicket. Some came disguised as anti-dreams, pasted together moments which seemed too literal to be true. Others unfurled themselves when she learned to unfurl herself. Some took left turns, some veered right; some made right hooks, some surprised her with left uppercuts of disorienting beauty. The odd dream would even honk its horn if another dream cut across the intersection of the shape-shifting mind without a care in the world. One dream even barked at her. One dream clambered out from its underground hibernaculum, staggered out into the dense forest, stretched its tired limbs, burped, farted, stretched again, and then went back underground without eating a single thing. Another just softly wailed until she finally paid attention to it.

Some dreams came in multihued waves that caressed her mind with motherly arms. Some dreams crashed into the sanctified hull of her ship without warning. Some dreams were cannonballs that shot out into the limitless fields of the unknowable. Some dreams were sleeping dragons protecting gnarled, sacred trees. Some dreams were playful fireflies. Some dreams rocked back and forth like shoddy suspension bridges. Some dreams spoke in hidden tongues. Some dreams listened but never spoke. Some dreams used their tyrannical power to overthrow the allure of other opinionated dreams. Some dreams died prematurely in the womb of restless waters. Some dreams alchemically walked to the beat of some hermetic heart. Some dreams made love to themselves atop the elegant castles of sensuality. Some dreams hummed the ways birds do. Some dreams whispered. Some of the dreams even built libraries out of dust and broken thoughts.

Despite all the wondrous cannonballs, fireflies, suspension bridges, and uppercuts of disorienting beauty, she was still looking for the greatest dream of all. In fact, she was worried she was never going to find it. In the mutable landscapes of her bizarre dreams, she would often ask herself, “Where is the road to the Great Dream? Where is the Pure Space of the Ever-Changing, Changeless Heart?” When no answer came, and when no new possible direction revealed itself, she became frustrated. And then all the libraries came crumbling down, all the multihued waves dissolved, and all the hermetic hearts stopped beating. Or at least so it seemed…

III

Her dream started in the primordial sea of purity, and slowly but surely catapulted her into undiscovered realms. She entered the realm of centaurs and gnomic puzzles, bolted through the kingdom of fractal beings, somersaulted along the astral banister in the land of ebullient elves. Information hit her from every direction. She joyously squeaked when she reached the lake of fables just in time to see a Babylonian priest serenade a forgotten Egyptian goddess. Doorways flung open faster than the wings of the birds of fire. Puzzles of infinite value coursed through her winding spirit, and conjured up memories and yearnings too impossible to put into words. She saw mathematical formulations as the barriers between worlds. When she got tired of dwelling in a place for too long, she moved along to yet more undiscovered realms in the vastness of eternity. Some places were populated with iridescent elephants playing polyrhythms on their tumescent bellies. The audience was a throng of luminous dragons. They applauded by blowing multicolored fire into the burnished sky. On the tips of the flames resided the specters of soothsayers. They told her, “You’ve been here many times before. Welcome back.” Then they exalted her spirit by throwing up magical confetti. After leaving the propitious realm, she moved into a world where fireworks and lightning were chariot racing in a torus-shaped coliseum. The spectators were levitating ultraviolet masks. She realized that the outcome of the race was going to be determined by the collective imagination of the spectators. Then she went onwards to the kingdom of vibraphones. Teeming with obscure musical colors, the kingdom was run by a sagacious bunch of leopard-skinned musicians. They noticed her and, in paying homage to her presence, played a Celtic-esque ditty filled with hypnotic counterpoints. Soon enough, as the dream crystallized into something more tangible, she found herself in a library, studying from the voluminous selection of books. Nineteenth century poetry and twenty-second century psycho-astrophysics occupied her time. In the library she could see other people she vaguely knew. The peculiar man next to her, reading a book about outer body experiences on roller coasters and airplanes, said in a high-pitched voice, “I love dreams because they are often beautiful. Even though I don’t know you well, I love you too. You’re beautiful and filled with the magnetic light that charges all good stories.” Her eyes filled with joy’s ambrosia. She thanked the man for being honest. He blew her a kiss. The invisible kiss transformed into a variegated butterfly. Its wings were Arabian tapestries. The tapestries were really depicting the course of her life, from the lonely nights playing the piano to the desolate road, from the stars to the bone. Then another occupant in the library told her to cup her hands over her ears. “I can hear the saffron ocean in me,” he said. “Why don’t you try?” When she tried to listen to the ocean within, she was pulled from the recognizable library and gracefully plopped into an enigmatic and warm place of pure understanding. She saw the ocean as the wellspring of all reveries. Soon after this, she felt a dreadful undertow pulling at her crystalline skin. The undertow ominously said, “All is transitory. All these dreams will die.” Before she knew, she was awake, weeping.