Are Dreams But Not Another World?
For what we dream, emulates what we forge within.
Are our dreams not the crossing over to another world?
Where all answers are found but skewed in the comprehension of the living. For many of our dreams doddle on the unanswerable, but draw us to believe there must be meaning.
Meaning, we may choose to ignore with the rashest thoughts. Or bore our dreams with denial to our own well being. Looking at them as if a mere jumble of pictures from what the day had brought to us. But like the gut, the intuition, we know there is something more to us. More than the beating of our hearts or the ticking of our minds.
Have we not all consumed the feeling of our gut in the decisions of life?
Have we not all ignored this feeling of knots that taut our stomach like string, but fail to untie it, to follow it?
Leading us to disappointment and regret. Fondling what could have been, if only our ignorant minds had not crossed our gut.
We dream with intent, the intent to bring us answers. To warn us of ourselves, be it the subconscious or the ego that trails beside it. There is more to the blurry faces that whisper to us in our sleep and the horrors that split our incandescent thoughts. Our dreams are but another world of us, of life.
If this you do not believe, please see the outcomes of a friend to Carl Jung. A friend whom asked Jung to bring meaning to a dream. And with the analysis of the dream, Jung warned his friend of great trouble. A trouble that could be blended with the ecstasy of death.
But the living mind of his friend would not allow for such a dream, or any dream of that matter to have any potency of rational or irrational belief. For he believed dreams with meaning to be foolish.
To bring about an answer to life, from dreams to this man. Was an unwilling hand. He thought dreams were of nothing but meaningless attempts of the mind to unwind. And in his inability to speak with the intuition of the gut, or of his dreams. Even with the heeding of Jung, Jung's friend fell to his death. And I mean not that in any metaphor, he truly fell to his death.
Just as the expected feeling he had upon his dream, ecstasy. And death be the only true ecstasy. For it separates the body from the soul and cannot be reversed.
Our dreams, whether subconscious or not, bleed us into another world. Into the true and visible of how we perceive our would. Or our dreams can be the the teachings of an answer to solve our strenuous troubles. But one must believe their dreams to be more than the simplistic outcomes of exhaustion.
Dreams hold something, something the living cannot perceive without much understanding of self. But strangely, one can find answers of self within the matters of ones dreams.
Thank you for reading, did you like what you read?
Then grab a copy of A Man's Traveled Heart
Popular posts from this blog
I have been writting poetry on medium, does anyone still wish me to write short stories on here?
Not fair? You know what's not fair, that eight year old boy who who was diagnosed with cancer on his eighth birthday. The mom that has to watch her child slowly die as she prays he will survive; only to watch him take his last breath. After all those sleepless nights of pain staking chemo. All those days of watching their child go from a bundle of energy, to a pale boy of sickness. -- Life's not fair? You know what's no fair, going to work to find out you are being fired because someone holds a minority that you don't. Fired, because your skin complexion is not the right color and they need more of the other. Being fired, because the company needs more of a certain set of sex organs to help out "equality." -- Your life's not fair? You know what's not fair, those 200,000+ men who went to help eradicate the evils of Hitler. Only to die less than hundred feet onto the shore. All those sons taken from their families, all those father and mo
The Taste of Love, Will It Ever Be Mine? When will I find my lips upon the sweet taste of love? Lost to its scent like the aromal smell of roses upon skin. Will there be an end, beneath an apple tree buried next to my other half? Or will I drown in the soiled pity of my heart as whiskey stains my veins? For I find the misery of myself to be a dull company, but yet its tingles with addiction. And I draw my eyes close to the empty halls of the damned. Screaming for peace but always find myself chocking on pride. Lost in a dense fog I created in the heat of breath upon my frozen heart. Distant am I, in the reaches of tears. For they have no existence in the forefront of my mind, nor heart. Some may call me hollow, lackluster in the dreams of my own thoughts. What is one without the acceptance of tears, without the bravery to step into the engagement of vows? How does one truly go beyond his own vicious habits if there lies no other to call them out? I hear my soul whispe