Dream-walker

I dreamt last night of an autumn breeze like a cool, silk-like veil brushing lightly against my face. I took in the scene, finding serenity in the unnatural quietness of an otherwise bustling alleyway where countless cafes and bistros open out onto the footpath. People sat about at various tables, though I could only make out blurry outlines and not faces. I saw nothing of the tall shadowy buildings that flanked both sides, almost threatening to cave in, casting shadows that seems enshroud the goings-on on the alleyway, if not for the small lamps upon each table and within the cafes themselves.

I don't remember walking, but was slowly drawn into the scene, as if floating, towards the warm, gently inviting orange light that seems to beckon bypassers to tarry awhile in its warm glow. As I enter the alleyway, feeling the embrace of the shrouding shade and the glowing lamplights engulf me, I found myself focusing on one particular person on one particular table. She alone was not blurred, and I could make out the face as clear as day despite the shade and the soft lights.

Soon I was before her, as if I'd sat down on her table, though I never felt my legs bend, nor saw any chairs. Such was the incomplete yet vivid picture that dreams usually present; though slightly surreal what with the floating movement and blurry faces. What wasn't incomplete was her face, and the words. I remember 'sitting' down. She had been staring into what I saw as empty space, completely engrossed in her own world. Perhaps she was in a dream of her own, a dreamer within a dream of another. My proximity did not appear to faze her; she continued to dream as it were. She had a wistful face, set with a certain heaviness like there had been a thousand worries in her life, yet her eyes danced like the moonlight upon the sea, as unfazed by those same worries as she was right then of me. Her modest hair was as dark as the shadows in that place, reaching down to her shoulders.

I said a word, probably a greeting, and I saw her eyes reluctantly peel away from whatever dreamscape they must have been focusing on and return to this world, my dream-world. For a moment I saw disorientation, but she quickly composed herself, adjusting to the surroundings as if she had just arrived. She too uttered a greeting, the breeze rustling her hair.

" I think I have seen you before in another dream." she said.
" Like in your own, or mine?" I replied. It seemed true though, for even as we conversed it seems as if we have known each other for years. We launched into a discussion about dreams, and the nature of dreams; how dreams might be a bridge between minds, a gateway to finding unity and oneness with others. I had once heard of a theory about individual minds being like islands; that on the surface we are all separated from each other by boundless seas, but beneath, in the subconscious where dreams lie we are as connected as the islands are by the sea bed. Perhaps both of us had somehow stumbled upon each other in this great expanse of open sea floor that connnects every person within our minds? The thought boggles me, and I found myself feeling like a hopeless romantic.

As our discussion continued, I felt the world lose focus, until the alleyway along with its moody lamplights and broody shadow faded away, replaced by a tent by the seaside as we 'sat' by a dying campfire. It is morning and gulls filled the air above the beach, which stretched as far as my dream-eye can see. At this point both of us suddenly felt that the time has come for farewells; the morning beckons. I feel myself being pulled away, even as I wanted to stay, desiring to just stay by that tent and talk about dreams and nothings with a fellow dream-traveller. In a faraway place, a consistent ringing could be heard as I was drawn away. I glimpsed one last time at the girl whom I had shared this time with; her eyes also losing the liveliness that it had before, as if she too felt the call of morning in whatever part of the world she is in. The dream-scape loses focus, and the stark reality of morning in the real world slams hard upon my chest. The alarm is piercing to my ears, the cold of the morning air assaults my face and limbs, and threatens to invade into that warm space between the sheets.

There are times when I feel the real world is fake and that the dream world is where we really belong. Perhaps there is an ounce of truth insofar that this world is merely a stepping stone to the next. May heaven is a bit like our dreams? Maybe...