The Dream

I lost a bit of humanity today. I felt it. It’s like losing your chain of thoughts and finding yourself lost in a vast place, filled with people you don’t know. Swollen. And a bit sad. But most of all, uneasy. Agitated.

I question myself because of this, even though humanity is not lost fully through oneself, but through others as well. Will I become numb? Even before my earthly departure? Or will I conquer this mountain?

Not sure what the salvation is, but I am sure of one thing. And that is of my fate being a problematic one.

For I had a dream. So blank, yet so vivid. So simple, yet so evocative.


I was in my kitchen. With another person. An older woman.

In the back of the cooker one could clearly see a bunch of broken, small sized guitars. Their cords, shattered, their notes destroyed forever. The wood chopped in half. Hidden from the eyes of the guests, placed in the dark corner.

The older woman kept telling me relentlessly that she’s hungry and that she wants me to open the fridge door to give her some food. But I am lost in my thoughts. Deaf to anything she says because I see it. Near the table. There she was, sitting. Waiting.

A big, acoustic guitar, with a peculiar shape. Instead of a straight line, its neck was shaped like an S. Distorted, Queer. Yet…so familiar.

So, instead of sitting down to eat, in disagreement with the old woman’s desire, I start playing it. And as the first notes and vibrations fill my mind, I sense a great fulfillment invading my being.

The old lady, still asking for food stared amazed at the mighty instrument, frozen by its sound. She could not escape her purpose in that world, but acknowledged the power of that which was going on.

There’s not much else to say about it, because after the first few notes I woke up. But instead of forgetting it like any other senseless dream, this one stuck with me. Haunting me. Asking me to get this text written. To get it out of my brain. It fought forgetfulness. And I gave it time. And a voice.

Because, you see, this dream makes a lot more sense to me than it should. And while I would love to dive in it and tell you about my bent power, I would rather leave it like this. A mysterious message from inside my being, surfaced in a dream sequence that in any other day of the week shouldn’t have mattered.


How much humanity does one have in pursuing his dreams? Should you choose to play your guitar or feed the old woman? Should you even care at all about that elderly chatterbox that doesn’t stop, not one bit, from her infinite requests? Or should you be the master of your twisted, bent instrument?

In the end, the quality of being humane can never be seen in relation with a single human. Because then we wouldn’t know what humane is. That’s why there were two in my dream. That’s why there are many in the world. Hungry. Asking for your food. For your time. For your blood.

Yet the whole world, in its quest for more of the same to fill its stomach stares speechlessly at one’s true vibration. At one’s power. The power of one against many. The master of the notes.

The dreamer.

 

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