Actually I do not have dreams very often. Or it could be that I don’t
remember my dreams after a usual night’s sleep.
Even if they’re long, most of my dreams are
forgotten. I try to recall them
just after I awake. But still I
can only catch some very small part of what has been smashed to pieces by the
clear thought of my wide-awake self.
And those shreds of dreams are easily lost if I don’t keep paying
attention by thinking on them.
They become dim and faint over the time that passes.
I suppose my dreams are
sparkling because I always feel I’ve gone through something deeply. I feel I’ve cried, laughed, seen
something or known something well.
I feel I’ve been there in some real time.
I like to dream. I like the feeling that is far away from me but is familiar
to me.
Some of my dreams seem branded in my mind. Each time they seem to bring me a
similar feeling, and some of them recur many times. And for this reason they are vivid; they would not be
forgotten easily. In each instance
something in common is repeated, as if they were the continuance of certain
stories, as if they had grown up with me.
When I was little, about five or six years old, I often dreamed I was
struggling hard to climb some high railings. I saw stranger’s faces climbing around me, wailing
with fright. Finally I huddled in
the highest place I could reach, trembling. There, beneath my shelter, all I could see was a sea of
fire.
When I grew a bit older, the dreams were often
of climbing up stairwells inside a building. The sunlight that shone from some unknown place was bright
but not dazzling. Also it smelt
clean and peaceful. But I just
couldn’t stay. I had only
one thought: that I should keep mounting the stairs and not stop, as if there
were somebody chasing me. I
finally came to the end of the stairs.
There was a door, and I knew that behind the door was something I was
afraid of it. I just knew it. There was no other way to go, I had no
choice but to open the door. I
opened it only a crack, and suddenly a chill permeated into my bone. I shut the door heavily with horror,
then pressed my back against it, straining, and gasped. I did this even though I knew the door
wouldn’t be opened again.
The dream always ended just here.
I could never really open the door, and I never knew exactly what it was
behind the door that made me so afraid.
Much older, I still had frequent dreams that took
place on stairways, but the background changed somewhat: now the dreams were
happening in old school buildings.
I didn’t know where I was going. The only thing I knew was that every story I passed looked
the same: dark classrooms, opaque windows, the floor covered with dirt. Everywhere I walked the dust flew up in
the air. The air mixed with thick
dust went into my lungs and made me feel I was suffocating. No matter where I turned it was still
the same dim and dirty scene, as if I were deep underground. I walked around on the stairs, upstairs
and down. At last I came to the
bottom of the building. Spider
webs, dirt and chill covered everything.
In front of me was a disc with a color like molten iron, red and
shiny. I couldn’t be sure if
it was an iron disc or an abyss of fire.
I wanted to go forward to check but was stopped by my fear. I always awoke from my dream just
here. I couldn’t know if the
ending was that I had too much misgiving of the unknown object or if I fell
into it.
These were the only nightmares I’ve
had. They were always the same, or
at least similar. In these dreams
I always got lost and felt extremely anxious.
Of other dreams I could only remember some pale,
faded reflection. Often it was a
moment at dusk that draws long shadows on the ground, or during some sunny day
when the sky was blue as a frozen sea.
The people I dreamed about were usually people I was close to, but the
things that happened were too dramatic. Sometimes it made me weep. But it looked as if I knew I was
dreaming, therefore I felt myself placed outside of my dream, as if I were
seeing a movie.
I think I like my dreams, although the ones I
remember are not really fond dreams.
Still I know in my dreams I’ve gone through happiness, sadness,
joy, and fear. Maybe some parts of
them are buried deep in my memory and cannot be recalled now; they wait for
some day that I can call them to mind.
But whether my dreams have been good or bad, and whether the dreams
I’ve yet to have will be good or bad, I’ll like all of them as my
own adventures.
I
don’t like divination or analyzing dreams, and I do not accept well the
connection between dreams and the things we think about in the daytime. Although dreams can reflect the real
self, why should we think we mirror ourselves naked in dreams? We have a whole conscious life to
explore our true colors. Dreams
should be restful. May dreams not bother the reality of day, and may reality
not bother my dreams.
--Yana Lin,
Taipei,
2002
Email: maderlin@ms13.hinet.net
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