A strange district in the dreamscape.
I've been dreaming in broken images that I don't remember, except for in slips. The last of my dreams this morning, as I skipped along the surface unwilling or unable to drop back under but unprepared to leave my bed, was particularly vivid and cohesive, however. So I'll write it down, because I mean to record these things more often.
It starts off in a large room, with the sense of a large house about it. The chamber is cluttered with large objects, furniture and things of that nature put aside for storage. I sit partially reclined with certain company in a high-backed sofa. He's quiet under the duress of a bad headache (which I know, in the dream, without recalling being told; that's the lovely thing about dreams, they come with pre-packaged understandings). On tipping the end of a glass of water sitting on the floor next to us, I lean down to blot it up, laughing (because I'm clumsy in dreams too, apparently). A second later, his arm winds around my waist... he says 'stop,' quietly against my shoulder and I turn into his kiss, which is almost brief but lingers in warmth.
We leave the house (is it that house? I'm not sure. I can't really specifically think of a time where I've been in that house with anyone that is in my waking life... but it seems like maybe I have? I've dreamed it enough). Everything is ashy-grey, the light is subfusc and dim. It doesn't seem to really be day or night. A little blur, and we are driving along an empty freeway, skirting the city; we don't seem to know where we are. "It's definitely San Francisco," I say from the passenger seat, recognizing some dream-invented landmark, because this is not the San Francisco I have known with friends there. He glances out the windows in passing disapproval, and we talk for a long time about what parts of the city are old and which have been built more recently. Not on basis of the architecture or wear, but on the basis of the way people move and the expressions on their faces.
Thinking more about the house, I'm not really sure about whether or not it's the black house, but it felt very like the purgatory in the last dream I died in. As it turns out, the purgatory of my dreams is a very interesting place to be, cluttered with things unused and put aside for later, like props lining the walls of rooms and rooms backstage in a massive theater. There was more light than in most of the black house dreams; but there was very little color.
Breathe in, breathe out... exhale, and inhale.
I wondered for a long time last night whether or not I should start keeping a metaphysical diary again. It's been a number of years. I'm not sure.
It starts off in a large room, with the sense of a large house about it. The chamber is cluttered with large objects, furniture and things of that nature put aside for storage. I sit partially reclined with certain company in a high-backed sofa. He's quiet under the duress of a bad headache (which I know, in the dream, without recalling being told; that's the lovely thing about dreams, they come with pre-packaged understandings). On tipping the end of a glass of water sitting on the floor next to us, I lean down to blot it up, laughing (because I'm clumsy in dreams too, apparently). A second later, his arm winds around my waist... he says 'stop,' quietly against my shoulder and I turn into his kiss, which is almost brief but lingers in warmth.
We leave the house (is it that house? I'm not sure. I can't really specifically think of a time where I've been in that house with anyone that is in my waking life... but it seems like maybe I have? I've dreamed it enough). Everything is ashy-grey, the light is subfusc and dim. It doesn't seem to really be day or night. A little blur, and we are driving along an empty freeway, skirting the city; we don't seem to know where we are. "It's definitely San Francisco," I say from the passenger seat, recognizing some dream-invented landmark, because this is not the San Francisco I have known with friends there. He glances out the windows in passing disapproval, and we talk for a long time about what parts of the city are old and which have been built more recently. Not on basis of the architecture or wear, but on the basis of the way people move and the expressions on their faces.
Thinking more about the house, I'm not really sure about whether or not it's the black house, but it felt very like the purgatory in the last dream I died in. As it turns out, the purgatory of my dreams is a very interesting place to be, cluttered with things unused and put aside for later, like props lining the walls of rooms and rooms backstage in a massive theater. There was more light than in most of the black house dreams; but there was very little color.
Breathe in, breathe out... exhale, and inhale.
I wondered for a long time last night whether or not I should start keeping a metaphysical diary again. It's been a number of years. I'm not sure.