(no subject)
My dreams rarely seem to follow any sort of theme, but today was quite different.
One
I was in the old house I grew up in, which is incredibly dear to me. I was born there, and most of my childhood memories are there. Memories involving this place are always vivid and beautiful. But in this dream the house was dusky, empty, charred. Burnt from the inside out but not burnt down. It was forgotten, empty, cold, desolate. There was no furniture or anything for me to touch and draw memories from, like there usually was. Then I was sitting at a little table in the hallway of all places, talking to my sister. We were chatting about some realistic things in a realistic plane except my vision beyond the table was the hallway of the old house. I was living the present, but surrounded in the darkness of the past.
So I begged her to help me find something I could draw positive memories from, something that could motivate me, pull me out. Something to inspire me and make me feel better, make me feel connected with the world and my life. She said, "I know just the thing, hangon."
She disappeared and I wandered the house a little more, increasingly aware of the dream and its possible meanings. I thought about how each texture, each surface I felt was a clue. But there were no familiar objects. Only the walls and windows were in this place, a sort of charred shell of all my vibrant warm memories.
Finally she returned and she seemed quite pleased with herself. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was a little blue vase with some mossy twigs in it. I immediately recognized it as being something from my past, though in my waking life I'm fairly certain it never existed. But holding it transported me into a blurry memory, sitting next to my dad at the old piano. Its chords echoing out of tune and scaling its best in earnest. The concerned smirk on his face as he watched me learn. The vase of twigs stood atop the piano's crest among other dusty relics. Sweet, cool breeze curled in through the open window behind the piano. A huge hydrangea bush bobbed its many pastel heads in approval. All of these sounds, smells, and tactile feelings combined into one huge streak of overwhelming comfort and happiness.
I guess I'd taken the vase of twigs with me when my mom and I moved away from dad and that house. My silly sentimental stubbornness wouldn't allow me to throw it away even when the water in the vase began to rot the bottom of the twigs. It does sound like something I'd do... I'm just amazed my mind came up with this and it never existed.
Two
Maybe after returning from this twig/dad/piano memory, I explained it to my sister and we both felt moved. Maybe it was my own musings that did this. I'm not sure... but the next dream was dad metaphorically turning into this huge tree, maybe the twigs were part of him. In any case he was enormous and my sister and I happily climbed and leaned on the immense branches. They were big enough to lean on like walls and strong enough to support both of us hanging and jumping. We laughed and said, dad loves us doesn't he? Why are we always so afraid? Why do we always think he doesn't approve of us? When all he wants is to see us live and play among his branches like this. He love us unconditionally.
The feeling now was probably similar to that of people who believe in Odin, and the tree of life. This tree was so huge I couldn't even fathom it, much less explain. It was this giant representation of the organic nature of love, whether paternal, parental, godly... I am not sure.
Three
The third was much more along the lines of my usual dreams. I was not me, it was not my life (though it produced symbolism that clearly was referring to my life). Often I dream little snippets of story of someone else's life, or an event from some other person's shoes. This time I was a teenage Korean boy constantly fighting with his parents, living in some crazy city in the future. Something about my (the boy's) lifestyle or interests was usually a hot topic of debate and I (the boy) felt perhaps running away would be best. My mother (a little Korean lady of course) told me before I do anything too drastic I should go talk to my father on the roof. I thought this was a silly idea since father was even less likely to understand than mother. He doesn't know me or accept me, why should I go talk to him? Just do it, she said.
So I begrudgingly climb the makeshift layers of housing (several hundred feet into the sky), slowly ascending to the top. Various businessfront signs decayed with time and neglect, cracked and swinging by chains or electrical wires, billboard poles, shopping carts, flickering neon. Basically a pile of industrial rubble that represented perhaps a "ghetto" part of the city. Covered in scratches, rust, dust, bruises, and a couple meaningful cuts - I finally made it up there.
An older Korean man awaited me, staring off at the smudged horizon of high tech city lights and more rubble piles like this one, smoke, smog, and grime. The generalized glow of the scene reflecting bright white from his bifocals. His frown made him seem very disappointed, despite how much I'd gone through to get up there. Maybe even apathetic to the fact that I'd even arrived. He didn't speak, I just stared at him.
His silence angered me, I wanted him to acknowledge me. I wanted praise for climbing. I wanted sympathy for my wounds. I wanted some sort of recognition. Finally I sat down and cried like a child, yelling at him and sobbing into the sediment and rust. Pounding my fists on the hallow structures of old building parts and hearing them echo and rattle. Kicking and screaming like a toddler. Once the headache set in, and my tears felt sticky on my cheeks and cold in my eyelashes... I looked up at him and saw that he wasn't ignoring me. He simply couldn't see me. He was essentially blind/deaf, or in another realm of existence, or maybe a ghost. But he really couldn't see me. He was looking for me though, trying to find me, hear me, thinking and wondering about me. He wanted recognition and acknowledgment too, but didn't know how to go about getting it.
So I hugged him and it scared us both, but he hugged back really tight and that was what we'd both needed. He said he accepted me for my lifestyle, and that I was stupid for thinking otherwise. I didn't believe he really did accept me, but he insisted. I still couldn't fully believe it, so he said "Watch, I'll prove it. I'll try to learn more about it, I'll learn more about you." So I grinned and backed away, stepped off the edge of a green upside-down awning, and dove. The aerial view of the city zoomed in on my father running and jumping off the edge to follow me, into the deep blackness of the city.
♥ ♥ ♥
One
I was in the old house I grew up in, which is incredibly dear to me. I was born there, and most of my childhood memories are there. Memories involving this place are always vivid and beautiful. But in this dream the house was dusky, empty, charred. Burnt from the inside out but not burnt down. It was forgotten, empty, cold, desolate. There was no furniture or anything for me to touch and draw memories from, like there usually was. Then I was sitting at a little table in the hallway of all places, talking to my sister. We were chatting about some realistic things in a realistic plane except my vision beyond the table was the hallway of the old house. I was living the present, but surrounded in the darkness of the past.
So I begged her to help me find something I could draw positive memories from, something that could motivate me, pull me out. Something to inspire me and make me feel better, make me feel connected with the world and my life. She said, "I know just the thing, hangon."
She disappeared and I wandered the house a little more, increasingly aware of the dream and its possible meanings. I thought about how each texture, each surface I felt was a clue. But there were no familiar objects. Only the walls and windows were in this place, a sort of charred shell of all my vibrant warm memories.
Finally she returned and she seemed quite pleased with herself. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was a little blue vase with some mossy twigs in it. I immediately recognized it as being something from my past, though in my waking life I'm fairly certain it never existed. But holding it transported me into a blurry memory, sitting next to my dad at the old piano. Its chords echoing out of tune and scaling its best in earnest. The concerned smirk on his face as he watched me learn. The vase of twigs stood atop the piano's crest among other dusty relics. Sweet, cool breeze curled in through the open window behind the piano. A huge hydrangea bush bobbed its many pastel heads in approval. All of these sounds, smells, and tactile feelings combined into one huge streak of overwhelming comfort and happiness.
I guess I'd taken the vase of twigs with me when my mom and I moved away from dad and that house. My silly sentimental stubbornness wouldn't allow me to throw it away even when the water in the vase began to rot the bottom of the twigs. It does sound like something I'd do... I'm just amazed my mind came up with this and it never existed.
Two
Maybe after returning from this twig/dad/piano memory, I explained it to my sister and we both felt moved. Maybe it was my own musings that did this. I'm not sure... but the next dream was dad metaphorically turning into this huge tree, maybe the twigs were part of him. In any case he was enormous and my sister and I happily climbed and leaned on the immense branches. They were big enough to lean on like walls and strong enough to support both of us hanging and jumping. We laughed and said, dad loves us doesn't he? Why are we always so afraid? Why do we always think he doesn't approve of us? When all he wants is to see us live and play among his branches like this. He love us unconditionally.
The feeling now was probably similar to that of people who believe in Odin, and the tree of life. This tree was so huge I couldn't even fathom it, much less explain. It was this giant representation of the organic nature of love, whether paternal, parental, godly... I am not sure.
Three
The third was much more along the lines of my usual dreams. I was not me, it was not my life (though it produced symbolism that clearly was referring to my life). Often I dream little snippets of story of someone else's life, or an event from some other person's shoes. This time I was a teenage Korean boy constantly fighting with his parents, living in some crazy city in the future. Something about my (the boy's) lifestyle or interests was usually a hot topic of debate and I (the boy) felt perhaps running away would be best. My mother (a little Korean lady of course) told me before I do anything too drastic I should go talk to my father on the roof. I thought this was a silly idea since father was even less likely to understand than mother. He doesn't know me or accept me, why should I go talk to him? Just do it, she said.
So I begrudgingly climb the makeshift layers of housing (several hundred feet into the sky), slowly ascending to the top. Various businessfront signs decayed with time and neglect, cracked and swinging by chains or electrical wires, billboard poles, shopping carts, flickering neon. Basically a pile of industrial rubble that represented perhaps a "ghetto" part of the city. Covered in scratches, rust, dust, bruises, and a couple meaningful cuts - I finally made it up there.
An older Korean man awaited me, staring off at the smudged horizon of high tech city lights and more rubble piles like this one, smoke, smog, and grime. The generalized glow of the scene reflecting bright white from his bifocals. His frown made him seem very disappointed, despite how much I'd gone through to get up there. Maybe even apathetic to the fact that I'd even arrived. He didn't speak, I just stared at him.
His silence angered me, I wanted him to acknowledge me. I wanted praise for climbing. I wanted sympathy for my wounds. I wanted some sort of recognition. Finally I sat down and cried like a child, yelling at him and sobbing into the sediment and rust. Pounding my fists on the hallow structures of old building parts and hearing them echo and rattle. Kicking and screaming like a toddler. Once the headache set in, and my tears felt sticky on my cheeks and cold in my eyelashes... I looked up at him and saw that he wasn't ignoring me. He simply couldn't see me. He was essentially blind/deaf, or in another realm of existence, or maybe a ghost. But he really couldn't see me. He was looking for me though, trying to find me, hear me, thinking and wondering about me. He wanted recognition and acknowledgment too, but didn't know how to go about getting it.
So I hugged him and it scared us both, but he hugged back really tight and that was what we'd both needed. He said he accepted me for my lifestyle, and that I was stupid for thinking otherwise. I didn't believe he really did accept me, but he insisted. I still couldn't fully believe it, so he said "Watch, I'll prove it. I'll try to learn more about it, I'll learn more about you." So I grinned and backed away, stepped off the edge of a green upside-down awning, and dove. The aerial view of the city zoomed in on my father running and jumping off the edge to follow me, into the deep blackness of the city.
♥ ♥ ♥