Saturday, March 12, 2011

I was vacationing with someone in my life whom I don't know very well; it was late at night, and we were asleep on different beds, on different sides of the room.  In my dream, I awoke and attempted to look out the foggy, 30-something-th floor window of our vacation condo.   We had been traveling together for days, though I do not remember where we were. Because it was humid outside, condensation had gathered, and I couldn't see out of the room.  Against the opposite wall there was a television on mute.  I heard this incredibly loud sound, earthquake-like.  Suddenly the television caught up with what I was hearing, and I saw on the live newscast that a tall skyscraper was crumbling in slow motion -- and it was the building next to ours.  I wiped the window with my forearm, but the fog wouldn't disappear.  I turned back to the television, and suddenly I began to fall backwards in the room, almost foot-over-head, except that I caught the edge of a table and held on.  My friend's bed began to slide, and the widows burst.  I closed my eyes and felt the floor fall from underneath me.  I fell for a very long time, until I fell no  more.

I had no desire to open my eyes.  Somewhere in the falling I realized that I was still asleep, that the memory of having woken up in the middle of the night was a continuation of the dream-state.  I consciously thought how visually-interesting it would be to see the walls crumbling, my friend's face in the room with me, whatever was outside the window (having tried twice -- in vain -- to see out of it already), but I could not force any desire to actually see it.  It was perhaps the most tranquil moment in a dream I've had lately (rivaling one I had about my niece four years ago), and when I awoke the second time, the time in which I'm existing now, I couldn't shake it, couldn't get back to sleep.  My bedroom window is now fogged; the bedroom door is shut.   And there's this simultaneous feeling of both seclusion and inclusion still in the room right now.

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