Here are a couple of my recent dreams. Unfortunately, my circadian rhythm is still a bit off-key, so my dreams are still occurring as short fragments.
I’m in a helicopter, flying over a forest landscape. I hold tight to the harness of my seat, so I don’t fall out of the open door as the helicopter rolls violently to the right. I can see that there is a battle going on down there. About eight tanks are flattening trees and firing at another helicopter which is hovering just above the tree-line. The helicopter looks like something from a cartoon or video game, with a massive bouquet of cannons protruding from its tail and blasting away at its pursuers.
The Piano Mountain
The mountain is daunting, and the climb is very hard going, but I’m determined to make it to the top. It doesn’t strike me as peculiar that I find myself climbing a mountain which is made entirely from grand pianos. The thing that plays on my mind, as I continue to ascend, is why the mountain should be within the confines of an enormous greenhouse. I reach up and take hold of the highly polished dark wood of the last piano, then I haul myself up. Once I am standing, triumphant on the summit, I look down to the base of the piano mountain, and see a small number of people applauding my successful climb.
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Jason stood with his back to the twenty-foot-high perimeter wall of the prison. His hair moved in gentle waves in the warm summer breeze while his eyes remained closed in serene contemplation. An exquisite sense of freedom pulsated through his entire being as he became aware he could at last walk away from that hellish place.
It’s not a prison, one guard had told him, four years ago on his first day of incarceration. A brick tomb for your mind, maybe, but not a prison.
Built a century ago as an asylum for the insane, for a moment in time it gained prison status. This home for the deranged was now known as “the hospital”. Regardless of classification, it stood as a red-brick monument to the darker side of the human psyche. A mansion for those with broken minds to be studied, and a vault to lock away the toxic effluent of British society. A place for the instigators of real-world nightmares to lay their malevolent heads, to rest, and to plan for a day whe…
Death at last, Jason thought, as the rope tightened around his neck. He accepted the pain as a minor inconvenience, an unfortunate discomfort he had to endure while his life came to an end. He hoped his attacker possessed the resolve to finish the job, before a guard had a chance to stop him.
The prison chaplain once said that Emily would be waiting for him in paradise, a belief Jason didn’t share and thought was nothing but tired nonsense. A fairy tale for the bereaved that he wanted to be true but knew wasn’t. The preacher’s hollow words of comfort had no effect on the sickening sting of grief. Jason had concluded that the universe was indifferent to life, and of death, no doubt, cared even less. It wasn’t through a lugubrious veil of depression with which he saw the world; this was an unequivocal acceptance that life was abhorrent with no meaningful purpose, so why put off the inevitable. The eternal void was in the next room, and he had no intention of keeping it waiting.