I intend to recount a dream from last night that was so vivid I wonder if I’m now dreaming about it. I was the protagonist of the dream. Most dreamers are, I guess. But I wonder if we take this too much for granted. The expression that kept coming to my mind during the dream was ‘spiritually empty’. The buildings in the dream’s city – i.e. a city, now, in hindsight – were grey and drained. I walked inside a church and the walls were covered in purple hangings, grey purple, so grey hardly purple at all, as if a black and white film had been mixed then stained rather than tinted. The aura of sanctity seemed off-putting as I wondered who were in the confessionals. I cannot recall any pews. I then left the church and squeezed down the end of tunnel alongside a dimly lit train that almost filled the tunnel. It was occupied by seated people, and I felt I was expected to board it and to travel in the same direction as the tunnel, i.e. in the same direction I was walking beside it feeling for a door. I could not recall any tracks leading up to the tunnel’s entrance. Eventually I managed to hoist myself aboard. The people were sullen – and perhaps now faceless, if not then. With some dread, I knew instinctively that we were all heading in the train towards a state called ‘death’. So, this was it. This was the way we all died. And nobody knows this until they do die. If I had known then that it was a dream, I assume I would have thought that I would not wake up from it but fall asleep forever in the dream’s own terms. It was then I noticed a young woman who was less sullen than the others and she appeared to be talking to me over the shoulder of another passenger. At that moment, the train started moving – not further into the tunnel as I had expected but out of the tunnel, i.e. from where I had just come.
written today and first published HERE.