“This is the departure strip,
the dream-road. Whoever built it
left numbers, words and arrows.
He had to leave in a hurry. ”
“Tell me the story..
About how the sun loved the moon so much..
That she died every night..
Just to let him breathe…”
“What if you slept
And what if
In your sleep
And what if
In your dream
You went to heaven
And there plucked a strange and beautiful flower
And what if
When you awoke
You had that flower in you hand
Ah, what then?”
— Samuel Taylor Coleridge, The Complete Poems
I have a dream to fill the golden sheath of a
remembered day…. … But the day is an up-turned cup
and its sun a junk of red iron guttering in sluggish-green
water – where shall I pour my dream? … ‘The Dream’ by
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost
upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;— vainly I
had sought to borrow From my books surcease of
sorrow— sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and
radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.” — The Raven (excerpt)
by Edgar Allen Poe
The darkness which clings to every personality is the
door into the unconscious and the gateway of dreams,
from which those two twilight figures, the shadow and
the anima, step into our nightly visions or, remaining
invisible, take possession of our ego-consciousness.”
“This is the secret of dreams — that we do not dream,
but rather we are dreamt.” — Carl Jung
It’s like we’re all walking on an old swaying wooden bridge in the world. If we can’t find anything to hold on to, we roll over. And we continue to fight with ourselves while looking for a subject, thing, person, ideology to which we can connect. Centuries have not changed its ordinary style in human psychology. One day we will realize that the only thing we can hold on to in the world is love. Until that happens, we will integrate with things. We will greet the insects. We will mix colors. And we will become alienated from those closest to us. We’ll get lost in untidy dirty walls. After a while, the days become the same as the other days. Then hours are like days. Let’s Think Now. Are our emotions a closet that we can open into the dark and show? Or how are we different from an insect trying to escape between things?
The lights of the last house are also dimmed. You watch your city turns into ruins. Perhaps the only light left in your hand is the burning part of the cigarette. The darkness that makes cancer the more it burns stands before you with all its being. Aren’t you ready to light up with a lighter when you hug this darkness ?
Aren’t you cold too? like the pitch you look at with envy. The road that used to be foggy and uncertain is now how the sea is for you. after all, spirits are like seas too. They are deep. Aren’t you an oyster hitting the shore of the sea and waiting for its wave? When you can’t reach the sea, that scent you leave around will be coming from your stomach, not from your grave. And when you first saw your loneliness grew so much ?…