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My dreams are rarely recalled, fleeting and don't have President Lincoln, or talking beavers, or anything like that. Even epic extravaganzas vaporize like vampires in the light of day. Still, inevitably, some do seem to hang around.
This particular one popped back into memory about an hour after I woke up; a highly unusual thing. It seems to want to be remembered, so I wrote it down. It also seems to want to be shared with someone, but I really don't know who. So, it's getting posted, with the hopes it will find whoever needs it.
It's just a dream, most likely meaningless. But it managed to get written down, so here it is:
I'm in a wide Victorian style hallway. The walls are drab wallpaper, covered with framed art museum prints. The hallway is filled with people socializing and there is a sense that at the end of the hall is a theater we're waiting to enter.
Rose petals are strewn on the ground. People are picking them up, sometimes cursorily glancing at them, and then dropping them with disdain. I ask someone close to me what the point of it is, they don't know.
A girl passes me, looks like a college senior. I ask her. She explains we are surrounded by beautiful art, next to which the petals are mundane, worthless. The patrons are showing their appreciation for art by behaving appropriately to such detritus.
I'm appalled. The girl and I are close to a wall now, sporting a Jackson Pollock looking thing. "It's all worthless!" I nearly yell, disparate for her to understand. "This petal, this wall paper, this painting, you, me, everything." She's taken aback by my outburst.
"Nothing is greater or lesser than another, it just is. Beauty is a reflection of the observer. An observer has the capacity to see the beauty in all things or nothing at all. By willfully denying beauty, you close your eyes a little tighter. You make your world a little darker." I point to a crushed petal. "It's disgusting!"
She immediately brightens. "Wow, that's great. Can you be one of our presenters?" Dream looses focus, drifts off into a sense of profound shallowness.
This particular one popped back into memory about an hour after I woke up; a highly unusual thing. It seems to want to be remembered, so I wrote it down. It also seems to want to be shared with someone, but I really don't know who. So, it's getting posted, with the hopes it will find whoever needs it.
It's just a dream, most likely meaningless. But it managed to get written down, so here it is:
I'm in a wide Victorian style hallway. The walls are drab wallpaper, covered with framed art museum prints. The hallway is filled with people socializing and there is a sense that at the end of the hall is a theater we're waiting to enter.
Rose petals are strewn on the ground. People are picking them up, sometimes cursorily glancing at them, and then dropping them with disdain. I ask someone close to me what the point of it is, they don't know.
A girl passes me, looks like a college senior. I ask her. She explains we are surrounded by beautiful art, next to which the petals are mundane, worthless. The patrons are showing their appreciation for art by behaving appropriately to such detritus.
I'm appalled. The girl and I are close to a wall now, sporting a Jackson Pollock looking thing. "It's all worthless!" I nearly yell, disparate for her to understand. "This petal, this wall paper, this painting, you, me, everything." She's taken aback by my outburst.
"Nothing is greater or lesser than another, it just is. Beauty is a reflection of the observer. An observer has the capacity to see the beauty in all things or nothing at all. By willfully denying beauty, you close your eyes a little tighter. You make your world a little darker." I point to a crushed petal. "It's disgusting!"
She immediately brightens. "Wow, that's great. Can you be one of our presenters?" Dream looses focus, drifts off into a sense of profound shallowness.
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