My memories of the dream start with me intending to visit an Australian bloke, a friend from Bali. I met him within the footprint of a run-down structure in a valley sheltered by sand-dunes. The walls of the single-storey house were largely ruined, in some places completely gone, in others still intact. Wind-borne piles of sand sat here and there, heaps and drifts aplenty. The scene was lit as if by a golden light, but I was not aware of its source. I couldn’t see my friend but knew he was sitting just out of view on the other side of a partition. The top of his head alone was visible at times. No matter to which part of the structure I moved, however, I could not ever fully glimpse his face.
We spoke, he and I, but the exact words of our exchange now elude me. I remember sensing trepidation on his part, a reluctance to step fully into view, and addressing it. “This is just a dream,” I told him at some point, my full upper-level consciousness flaring briefly into the landscape of the dream. Near the house grew tall palm trees. Low bushes crowded a neighboring oasis, a growing puddle of clear water seeping from cracks in the long-barren earth.
At some point, he fled using what looked to be a gasoline powered four-wheeler. After his departure I exited the house, at which point my memories of the dream end.
americanifesto / JPR / whorphan / 場黑麥
No comments:
Post a Comment