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
A Wanderers Inn I have been traveling for thirty days. My horses are weak and I thirst dearly for water. My belly aches as hunger constricts my gut. I am fearful of death in such an unsuitable way. I have always seen myself dying in daring act of life. Be it in war or the saving of a child. Or maybe, even in the defeat of a dragon as I get one last blow with my blade before it strikes me down and it falls to its death beside me. Feeling its last breath of heat roll over my body as our eyes see only our fading souls. I have always thought my death would be glorious. Yet here I am, traveling alone with no more rations, nor water. My horses no longer walk with fervor but lackadaisical steps. And so I pray to find shelter before the cold takes us. Before the empty plains of barren trees and darkness finds us. I wish not to be detritus before my days. Decaying slowly to the maggots as my body lays helpless upon the earth. Becoming a gruesome vision of what lies inside. B
The Moles Never Learn I found myself walking in the snow, my head aching with a sharp pain. I feel the back of my head, there is something crusted upon the rear of my skull. I dig my nail carefully into it. I can feel the crust collect beneath my nail like dirt. As my feet trudge through the sixteen inches of snow I look to my nail and there in my nail is blood. Dried cells of my body. Upon seeing this I become confused with worry. I place my hand once again upon my bloodied skull and began to examine it. I slide my index finger like the bristle of a broom, back and forth trying to see what wound had allowed such blood upon me. But after several seconds of feeling about, I find nothing. No scratches, no lacerations, nothing. My worried confusion musters down to mere confusion. I rub my eyes as I am strangely held with a slight daze. As if I have been interrupted from a deep sleep. And the evening air is not helping my situation. I am comfortably wrapped for a day tr
The Blameful Two The world broke as their hearts bled the shadows of their misery. Seeping upon the world, flooding with the scars of agony. Their eyes trembling beneath the moonlight as their blood stained hands shimmer. Their lips sewn as each is caught in a lie. Both bare, exposed to their duality. Their curtains drawn thus unmasks the bodies they have slain. The skeletons of truth dragged through the spoils of deceit. Each, unwilling to speak. Their cheeks flush in rose petals. Their skin taut to the anxiety of their arrest. They are now the victims of themselves and each the other. Two hell's preached in the underbelly of their weakness. The fraudulent thought in avoidance of pain. And now they stand as nude as the beginning of life, Adam and Eve. Shaking, they are without words. Silent, bearing only tears that fall to the blood soaked floors. The dark whirlpools of hypocrisy. Neither is without sin and neither is without murder. Their souls weep dearly a