September 08, 2023
This is another delayed recording of a dream I had in July. I haven't been able to recall any other dreams since then. Maybe, it's because my quality of sleep has degraded.
From what I can remember, this dream's transition from the one immediately preceding it felt very seamless. It was different enough for me to recognize it as a separate dream but not so jarring that it triggered a lucid response from me.
At the end of a previous dream, I was walking down the length of a wide pedestrian zone. Palm trees, seating areas, and ornate lampposts were evenly arranged along the paved path, and the walkway was flanked by buildings of Spanish Baroque-like architecture. A balmy breeze blowing in from the beach salted the air with ocean spray, and everything the setting sun could touch was submerged in orange warmth. The angular, stark shadows of day relaxed, easing into soft, muzzy shapes, gradually weaving themselves into the collective, growing shroud of dusk. Before twilight arrived, I walked this busy stretch of coastal city, away from the open waters and towards the vague suggestion of a wall, two miles away. Beyond it, I could see towering redwoods, impressive, unmoving, and biding time. I could feel them waiting for me, and I didn't want to vex them: Despite their ancient age, there was an oppressive impatience that I did not wish to test.
As the blue hour descended upon the coast, overhead and all around, strings of starry lights twinkled to life, and vibrant, glowing novelties lit up smiling faces. Some of these objects I recognized as glow-stick bands and blinking, spin-copter toys; Others were holographic feats I cannot clearly remember. The evening was lively and had weekend energy, though I couldn't know for sure.
At the perimeter, I could see the wall curl around the city in both directions. It seemed so inconsequential beneath the lofty woods, but standing before it, its stony, rough exterior still loomed well over my head. I placed an apprehensive hand on a sun-warmed section of dull steel wedged between the masonry, letting my small, intrusive presence be known. Its horizontal, metallic panels rolled up, like a garage door. I stepped through, and the door unfurled behind me, with a reverberating clatter.
An LED sign, dusty with pollen, flickered above the closed door, on this side. Its light painted the leaf litter a faint turquoise. It read a time I don't remember, but its white, plastic casing morphed by the second, to accommodate new numbers. It was a countdown. Somehow, I knew it was for when the door could open again.
In those woods, the blue hour never gave way to night. A cool fog crept in, rolling and tumbling like small waves along the shore. Swimming through the moisture, I gathered seed cones and balls of yarn sparsely sprinkling the forest floor. I was very selective and limited to what I could carry in the hammock of my shirt. Having some on me at all times felt vital, like they were protective charms or currency for leaving.
Eventually, the woods thinned, and the earth became loose dirt strewn across concrete. The fog was thicker and heavy, now still against the ground. At first, it seemed as though the scattered redwoods here were growing out of the concrete. Then, I came across a chest-high retainer of concrete, and beyond it was just open, cloudy sky. Cautiously peering over the edge, I could see the edge of other concrete levels below this one with the front bumper and hood of a car peeking into view occasionally. Confirming that it was just overcast skies above, I realized that I stood on the highest level of a parking structure. The trees weren't growing out of the concrete but through. I made a note to give the trees a wide berth.
I explored the area for awhile, still collecting seed cones and yarn and leaping over crumbling holes in the concrete. Looking into one of them revealed more holes below, but this place didn't feel like ruins or a product of civilization reclaimed by nature: Grey lampposts functioned fine, shiny cars were parked neatly below, and besides the jagged holes, the place seemed immaculate.
Then, I felt another presence, in the foggy, tree-pierced openness. It was a girl my age. In hindsight, I must've been a teenager then. I called out to her, and she responded in kind. We played hide-and-seek and other games using the seeds and yarn I found. There was a contagious cheeriness about her, and I felt like I could jump higher and run faster, when near.
When we ran out of breath, we collapsed into a meadow—measured and maintained within concrete bounds. We talked about our interests and aspirations openly, with the exception of her being guarded about details relating to this world. After what seemed like hours in this unchanging place, she dusted herself off and bid me farewell, apparently returning to her part-time shift. As the fog engulfed her, dread and loneliness descended upon me, so I ran after her.
I could feel her mood radiating off of her: She accepted me following her, but she didn't acknowledge me any further. We passed a few small buildings— single-room units made of stone and wood. When she entered one, I lost sight of her. Inside, it was pleasantly warm and sunlight smiled through windows of a wavy glass I couldn't clearly see through. Dust motes sparkled like glitter in the golden rays. To the left was a long, wide, sunlit hallway with large windows on both walls. This immediate space was furnished with windowed cabinets and a high counter of dark wood, in addition to chairs spaced evenly apart and against some windows. Taller on the tips of my toes, I could lean over the counter and see a phone directory on a CRT monitor. Electrical room, examination room, operation room—this place was a clinic or hospital, and this room was a nurse station, but the wooden floors and furnishings, natural sunlight, and drowsy ambiance of this place felt more like a library or café. I wondered, and still wonder, if having wood floors are permissible in a place prone to biohazard spills. Maybe, it's okay in low-risk areas but not others, or perhaps, a protective varnish exists and is enough.
Was the girl a patient or a caregiver here?
While exploring and napping, I thought this deceptively large place was vacant, until I heard chatter ahead. There was another nursing station and waiting area, but the room was windowless and illuminated with buzzing florescent lights. The skin of the nurses and patients looked pale and sweaty. I knew that if the grey light touched me, I'd be contaminated too. Suddenly, my chronic pain was summoned, heavy and restrictive like winter gear, writhing about in my bundled nerves. The paralyzing shock was so real it gave me a brief moment of lucidity. I retreated back into the corridor, and I imagined the pain oozing out of me and dripping onto the floor. Relief washed over me, as golden sunlight burned the liquefied pain away. I stood still for awhile, closing my eyes, a couple, warm tears rolling down my cheeks. I thought to myself, "Is this what it's like to receive a blessing?"
As I left the sunny labyrinth that smelled of lemony, wood polish, I found myself on a lower level of the parking structure. Behind me, the building was gone. Gnawing at the back of my mind was a sense of urgency to leave. I looked down at my hands and shirt. When did I stop carrying the charms, the tickets? I couldn't find any holes in the floor above me, so I had no choice but to descend. Somehow, my body wasn't a broken mess, every time I jumped down a hole. No matter how many floors I scaled, the clouds never gave way to a view of the earth below. I stopped, when I suspected there might not be a bottom to this place.
Self-preservation and survival became my focus. I was another animal pressed on by a protective, primal instinct—coding corrupted in my wakeful existence. Time resumed, and the blue hour was transforming into night. Cars began peeling out of their parking spots in a hurry, zooming around the corner and out of sight. Now, I realized that each level sloped down into the one below it. Assuming they were exiting this place, I followed after them. Pounding my fist on their darkened windows, shouting at them to let me in. They only sped away or tried running me over. Then, I saw the girl again, walking alongside a middle-aged man that shared her likeness. My animal nature sat back and leered doubtfully, as my societally-mannered self took over.
In hindsight it wasn't casual, but in the dream, I gracefully inserted myself into their intimate bubble—a privilege typically reserved for family and close friends. Through doublespeak and body language, I was able to effectively communicate my plea for help to her, while redirecting any suspicions the man, who I assumed was her father, held towards me. She introduced me favorably and convinced him to invite me over for dinner.
Beyond the parking structure was an infinite expanse of starry, outer space. The transformed car sped down a road of opalescent light. In hindsight, it reminds me of the Rainbow Road level of Mario Kart. Like a ribbon unfettered by gravity, the speedway undulated and twisted slowly, all vehicles rocketing down its length towards a lush, blue planet encircled by three, white rings of varying sizes. We parted from the road and headed for the middle ring. As we got closer, I could see that the ring was covered in equally white buildings and transportation channels. The girl could sense my dread and held my hand nervously, as I froze at the sight of an incoming checkpoint gate. The flashing, blue-red lights forced me to withdraw, and my instinctive side resurfaced.
I pressed my fingers against the car door, and they slipped through the textured leather. Holographic blocks of light bobbed on the rippling area as if it were water. I wasn't lucid but capable of rewriting the reality of this world. With a touch, I implanted my will into the car to obscure my identity, and we passed through without issue. The girl witnessed everything, and as I held her hand, my essence crawled up her arm and into her ear and whispered the truth of her simulated world. She stared stiffly ahead. I couldn't read her, and I feared that maybe she was now hostile to me.
I don't recall what happened during the interim, but the next scene I remember is being outside the vehicle, standing before their residence. Its architecture was modern, by our standards: Its grey, stony exterior was smooth and flat, and the rooms resembled stacked boxes of assorted sizes, like a pile of cold presents. It had an open-concept design, with high ceilings, wide windows, and glass banisters lining the second floor balcony and staircase inside.
We sat down for dinner, though I can't recall what dish I was served. I remember it being warm, nutritionally balanced, and pleasantly plated in a detailed yet modest way. During the meal, there was something sweet to eat, like fresh fruit for dessert or something. It tasted like a hazy memory, like somebody's vague recollection of a taste they had experienced just once in their life. I cautiously commented on this, that the texture and sweetness was unusual. Her father studied me coolly, before excusing himself from the table. The girl and I exchanged nervous glances and retreated to her room. I became lucid, from that dinner experience, and edited the circumstance for my now extended stay to be because of a sleepover.
How omnipotent is lucidity?
Underneath the covers, lit by the turquoise light emitted from my deconstructing fingertips, we conspired: I shattered the illusion further, dipping my fingers into the stream of code, plucking a strand of symbols from the encrypted waters that flowed over my hand. I rewrote it, in an instant. Now, it reflected what I remember experiencing, biased yet sure. I handed it to her. Again, I don't remember what this sweet food was, but I remember it transforming from a fragile, meticulous thread of language into its physical representation, once it touched her skin. As she bit into it, I feared it would break her, that I killed her. It was an eternity of eating, a forever of frenzied thoughts devouring me. I didn't want to be lucid anymore. I wanted the freedom in relief, in the peace of the dream controlling me.
After swallowing, finishing my plate of time for me, she glowed with excited wonder. However, her interest was fixed on me and my experiences, not on her fabricated, finite world, regardless of whether I addressed the sci-fi, coded setting or the dream itself. Again, I wonder, how omnipotent is lucidity? Is regaining control of myself and the environment enough? Should I be capable of controlling others, in lucid dreams? I wasn't able to. I don't want to.
My final memory of that dream was my omnipresence seeing the girl's father in his garage-lab and him detecting me meddling with their world. He chased me around the house with a frightening machine I can't recall, as I submerged myself into the house's code, swimming in the clear, liquid language and bobbing, blocks of light.
Then, I woke up. My forehead was sticky with sweat, and the toasty room smelled of the sun. I rolled over onto my stomach and placed a hand against the wall. I pressed my fingertips into it. They whitened with the force, but the wall remained. I let my hand slide down the bumpy, dry surface, blood flow and pink tips returning. I went back to sleep.
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