A naked woman is halfway emerged in a sort of lake and i remark to a friend that “she is beautiful” and they agree.
I seem to be in a Hell-like world but it is not frieghtening. Lots of warm colors and desolate, how i imagine Mars would be.
There are figures all around that look like they were made from a 2-part mold. I can see the seam where the mold meets. They are white and have a spongey look, like they are flexible.
I seem to be in a manufacturing world where things are made for the “normal” world.
The next thing I know I am watching myself burn many of these molds, which now seem like sacred artifacts. The environment has not changed, but the burning, Mars-like, scenario, is part of my intentional destruction of these objects. As if this burning is for all of humanity, but taking place away from it, in some other dimension.
The sinking woman and the form of these melting objects, against the sustained burning landscape feels like a profound metaphor that i can’t grasp.
then i wake up.
I dreamt that my best friend’s family, her sons and daughters, were not speaking to me. I wanted to find out the reason but no one would tell me. I had done something to aggravate them but I did not know what. I tried to find her son, whom I am closer to, but couldn’t. I wanted to know what had happened. I woke up.
I was by the sea and was told there were two sand boxes inside the ocean. Entering one I could open an escape route to the next one and be out again. Although I am afraid of the rough open sea I think I can do it. When I enter the first box I cannot find the passage to the next one. I start to panic and feel I will drown. I think if I can be calm I will make it. I cannot find the opening. I panic again and wake up.
We were resting at a castle for the night. We took over every possible surface, sleeping on cold stone floors , on massive wooden dining tables. It was raining and cold. We were in the France. We’d be advancing in the war the next day. People lay asleep or quietly chatting - men and women. Candlabras were lit along the floors. My ex boyfriend had found himself a resting place inside the massive stone fire place in the kitchen large enough to roast a pig. He reclined in his cave surrounded by a circle of candles. I walked closer to him stepping over people and avoiding flames in the kitchen. I stood in front of the firplace watching him. Later that night I was back in my quarters - a room all alone. There was a knock on the wooden door
Dream college reunion. I could float. The ceiling is that spiky texture that looks like a cake decoration. I lay on the spikes like it’s an acupupressure mat (aka spiky mat).
We do a group exercise where we simulate being born. There was a kind of fucked up producer guy guiding me through it.
I was carried down a misty river on wooden panels held together by thin twine. It was a very slow pace—I waved at all the cows and sheep I passed.
The differences which exist between every one of our real impressions–differences which explain why a uniform depiction of life cannot bear much resemblance to the reality – derive probably from the following cause: the slightest word that we have said, the most insignificant action that we have performed at anyone epoch of our life was surrounded by, and colored by the reflection of things which logically had no connection with it and which later have been separated from it by our intellect which could make nothing of it for its own rational purposes, things, however, in the midst of which – here the pink reflection of the evening upon the flower-covered wall of a country restaurant, a feeling of hunger, the desire for women, the pleasure of luxury; here the blue volutes of the morning sea and, enveloped in them, phrases of music half emerging like the shoulders of water-nymphs – the simplest act or gesture remains immured as within a thousand vessels, each one of them filled with things of a color, a scent, a temperature that are absolutely different one from another, vessels, moreover, which being disposed over the whole range of our years, during which we have never ceased to change if only in our dreams and our thoughts, are situated at the most various moral altitudes and give us the sensation of extraordinarily diverse atmospheres.
Memory is not an instrument for surveying the past but its theater. It is the medium of past experience, just as the earth is the medium in which dead cities lie buried. He who seeks to approach his own buried past must conduct himself like a man digging.
I have a dream where Lourença is in my room. I am sleeping and she is staring at me. I am afraid and then I wake up
Words are a medium that reduces reality to abstraction for transmission to our reason, and in their power to corrode reality inevitably lurks the danger that the words themselves will be corroded too.
Dreams, memories, the sacred–they are all alike in that they are beyond our grasp. Once we are even marginally separated from what we can touch, the object is sanctified; it acquires the beauty of the unattainable, the quality of the miraculous. Everything, really, has this quality of sacredness, but we can desecrate it at a touch. How strange man is! His touch defiles and yet he contains the source of miracles.
Part of the explanation for why dreams can be so weird is that they are interpreted from chaotic information. The evolutionarily older parts of our brain are also the seat of our basic emotions. According to this theory, the emotion comes first, and dreams are made to make sense of that emotion. Evidence for this position comes from scene changes that happen: when we have anxiety dreams, for example, they often switch from one anxious situation to a different one—so rather than us feeling anxious because of the content of our dream, it could be that our feeling is causing an anxious narrative in the dream!
Why humans dream remains one of behavioral science’s great unanswered questions. Dreams have a purpose but it may not be to send us messages about self-improvement or the future, as many believe. Instead, many researchers now believe that dreaming mediates memory consolidation and mood regulation, a process a little like overnight therapy. But it’s not a benefit all share equally: People who are sleep deprived also tend to be dream deprived, spending less time dreaming and perhaps not remembering dreams as well.
If dreams were movies, they wouldn’t make a dime. They’re often banal, frequently fleeting and they’re screened for an audience of just one. As for the storyline? You’re in a supermarket, only it’s also Yankee Stadium, shopping with your second-grade teacher until she turns into Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Then you both shoot a bear in the cereal aisle. Somebody call rewrite. But dreams are vastly more complex than that, and if you’ve got a theory that explains them, have at it. The ancient Egyptians thought of dreams as simply a different form of seeing, with trained dreamers serving as seers to help plan battles and make state decisions. The ancient Greeks and Romans believed that dreams were equal parts predictions of future events and visitations by the dead.
A dream is a succession of images, ideas, emotions, and sensations that usually occur involuntarily in the mind during certain stages of sleep. The content and purpose of dreams are not fully understood, although they have been a topic of scientific, philosophical and religious interest throughout recorded history.