| A dream |
[16 Jul 2008|05:45pm] |
What a strange dream I had last night. Writing it down doesn't do it any justice. I feel like it's a multilayered metaphor for my existence, among other things, based on my interpretation thus far.
And I know interpretations are largely personal, but if anyone else notices anything interesting, don't be afraid to leave a comment :).
The dream began in a cold, dark cell. As far back as I could remember, I woke up everyday in this cell, though I never remembered going back. I always passed out from pain or shock before then. This was because I was an experiment in a massive human vivisection lab. Whenever I left the room, as I always ended up doing sooner or later, I would find myself in a series of dark, narrow corridors roughly laid out like a "3" with my room being at the bottom tip, and "the labs" being at the two tips above. The labs always changed from day to day, always some new, horrific torture. I sometimes felt like the only person in existence, as I never saw anyone else. All the "tests" were done remotely since there were cameras everywhere. So day after day, I would leave the room, knowing what was in store for me. Don't know why, maybe I thought I'd find a way to escape, or maybe I was hoping they would finally kill me.
Then one day, leaving my cell, I walked to the middle corridor. At the end, there was a showerhead, and a plasma screen mounted to the brick underneath it. I didn't have much more than a few seconds to inspect before freezing cold water burst forth from the showerhead like a fireman's hose. I screamed in shock and held my ground. In a rage, sick of the pointlessness of it all, I ripped the screen from the wall and shattered it on the ground. Then, suddenly afraid of worse repercussions, I ran back and up toward the last hallway where there was a door. I had never been able to get the door open before, but with fear and hatred powering me (and ripping off the screen might have had something to do with it too), I kicked down the door and breathed in a lungful of fresh, night air. I was outside for the first time that I could remember. I quickly ran toward the woods that lined the complex and escaped.
Some time later, cut to me walking through a city, disheveled and homeless, but free. At some point, I had befriended a guy with a little green dragon always perched on his shoulder. No one seemed to notice the dragon but him and I. We walked, mostly in silence. I felt like he had escaped from something dreadful too, but I never asked.
Eventually we found a nice patch of grass off the sidewalk to take a nap, so we did. The place we had chosen to sleep was a bizarre, escher-esque mash-up of a suburban town. Like someone had a little too much fun with the tilesets from an rpg videogame. Half of a house, cut away so the inside was entirely visible, stood right behind us. In front there was an onramp and a bridge. To our right was dotted with barren hills and townhomes, all sliced away on the edges of the invisible grid they stood on.
We had not been there very long when we spotted a police officer walking in our direction, pushing in front of him a wildly dressed girl with a huge blond afro and wearing a rainbow of colors. She was swearing at him profusely, saying he knew she was innocent. The cop threatened her with violence if he ever saw her in "his town" again and left. She swore at him one more time, then stormed off, without noticing us. Someone else came up and watched the whole spectacle. A rough-looking punk with a small red wyvern on his shoulder. He made a snarky comment about authority, then left with purpose in his step.
Soon after nightfall, we heard a bunch of sirens and looked up to see some fires nearby, forming a C shape as if they were the jaws of a creature about to chomp us. We quickly ran into the house behind us because we knew someone had recently died there and people had left a lot of photos and other physical representations of memory, and we did not want them to burn away, even though we had never met any of the people living there before and should not have cared, normally. We put the objects into a fireproof safe in the house, then went back outside to find the punk admiring his work. We confronted him about it and he indicated that they were magical fires and the damage was illusory. They would soon put themselves out. We didn't ask why he'd bother wasting the resources of the fire department on fake arson. Instead, we got into a conversation about his dragon, and the last thing I remember saying before waking up is "Chew some psilocybin, it'll help you communicate with your dragon more easily."
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