dream journal #1

fictionalized subconscious / does the imagery have to make sense?

I dream that I am on a beach. The colors are soft: beigy sand, indistinct blues, and gentle greens that bend under a gentle wind. The light is bright, nearly blinding. I am with a woman. I do not know her name, I do not know her face, and I do not suspect that we have met before upon the physical plane. Here, she is my colleague of sorts.

We (the woman and I) walk along a quickly eroding cliff of sifting sand. I gaze out along the shoreline, to where the mangroves eat their way to water, and am stunned at the sight before me: a conglomerate, a nest of limbs, a tangle of hundreds of golden humans. Their sprawling arms and legs weave together in a pattern not unlike the mangroves; the composition is ecological in its iconography, and for a moment I am unsure if this is merely growth that is natural to this biome or if it is an installation by man.

(All are bald.)

I pause. My hair flutters about my face with my sudden stillness. I softly gasp.

The woman approaches, hand outstretched.

The dream bends.

I am alongside this golden human mangrove, admiring and observing its pulsating breath.

One figure lifts its head, the whites and blacks of his eyes sharp against that blinding skin. 

Again, the woman approaches; again, hand outstretched. I tell her it might be dangerous or something of the sort, but my words fall upon deaf ears.

This figure—this man of many—crawls to her on all fours. He inspects her as an interesting specimen. The woman does not protest when he wraps a hand around her ankle and pulls her into the mangrove.

The dream bends.

I stand in front of a mirror.