I rarely remember my dreams.Mature

Tuesday, 9 June 2009 11:32 PM

Every now and then however, I have a dream that is so vivid, lucid and bizarre that I cannot forget it, and in fact I remember almost every subtle detail of it. Last night, I had one such dream.

The dream started out as an amusing one. I had, for some reason (it was never revealed in this dream), injured my foot. The unknown, faceless people around me were saying that I had been run over by a car. Hahaha. They urged me to go to the hospital, and so I limp off in search of it. Places in my dreams rarely mirror those of real life, and yet they always look the same in this odd dreamworld that my subconscious mind weaves.

In my dreams I am often accompanied by people whom I recognize to be be friends whom I no longer keep in touch with. Either that, or people whom I do not recognize but yet feel strangely familiar, like friends I will have in my life whom I have not yet met. A group of such friends are on the train with me, and when we alight I limp alone to the hospital. While in the hospital waiting room, I am hungry. A plate of chicken rice would be great. Funny, because in my conscious world I rarely eat chicken rice. The nurse has called me in to meet the doctor. I sit before the doctor. "So how did you you come to sustain this injury?" she asks.

And then I am eating chicken rice. It is delicious. The next thing I realize is that I am now in camp, army. I was unable to skip my duties today despite my injury. This is because I apparently left the hospital before I could get some form of excuse letter. Whether or not I even completed the medical examination was never revealed.
My army commander is sitting with me, and he appears to be aware of my injured foot. We are apparently having a conversation, and he mentions a word; it starts with an "i", but upon waking I was unable to recall this word. The images that came to mind when this word was mentioned can still be remembered though. Images of self-inflicted injuries, and images of stigmata. He was asking why I did it.

The next place I find myself in is at the back of a bus. I am sitting with more friends whom I do not know. I feel close to them though. I feel happy. Outside the windows the sun is setting and the sky is beautiful, a collage of rich colors and silky clouds. Beside me sits a girl who appears to be my age. I can no longer recall her face but I remember that she was beautiful. We were getting along well. I wanted to ask her on a date. We talked for a long time, and i started showing her some of my things to keep the conversation going. Then I find this old children's picture book in my bag. It is without a title, and it is about a baby girl with no name.

In the same manner that I go from place to place in my dreams, not unlike scenes in a wildly-cut movie, I found myself inside a small room, and in front of me sat the nameless baby girl.

The girl was a tiny thing, but wore the clothes of senior English women. Over her floral-printed petticoats she wore a tiny sky-blue hand-knitted wool jacket. She was trying to put it on. She did so in vain, however, for in place of her arms and legs were half-decayed fleshy stumps.

I pick the child up and gently place her in front of me, and I begin to help her button her jacket together. A glistening trail of drool falls lazily from her lips and settles on my hand,  forming between the child and myself, a temporary, intimate connection. The child looks up to me. Her eyes are glazed over, milky grey, and she has a random spatter of teeth emerging from her gums. The skin of her face is flaky and peeling, like a sunburn - except that her skin is not tanned, but strikingly close to the color of ash, while her lips, dried and cracked, show traces of clotted blood.

I feel no significant emotion while I slip each button into their slits. There is no sadness, no pity, no anger, no disgust, no fear, no happiness. Perhaps just a slight lingering melancholy. The child smiles at me and laughs, a sort of gleeful soft-edged cackle. Her arm stumps begin to wag violently, as though she is attempting to clap.
I am back in the bus, and the girl whom I sat with previously is leaned over close to me, her eyes big with fascination. I resume the conversation and I realize that I am back to the moment where I pulled out the book of the nameless baby girl.

"And this is a fascinating book." I say.

I put it in her lap and she flips through it. Her eyes begin to glisten, and a single tear rolls down her face. 

And then she begins to retch and she vomits.

She is no longer beside me. The numerous random items we talked about lay scattered all over the floor of the bus. My friends are gone. The bus lumbers on, with me at the back of it, while its faceless anonymous driver changes gears and never looks back.

This is where I woke up.

The End

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