The Dream.

The Dream, Henri Rousseau (1910)

Before I had time to decipher the last dream, another came to me last night.

Just like literature, in dreams sometimes recur familiar symbols; sometimes the same protagonist revisits over and over again. Something might have been out of my mind for some time already, then I thought perhaps it's time for it to fade out and vanish into the whitewash of time. But it's in dreams where it's brought up again as a constant reminder, as if a forced reminiscence of a distant past.

Most of my dreams have set out usual plots, with unlikely people in some unlikely setting absurdly put together. Last night I had two dreams. In the first one, I dreamt I was with him again. As in the second one, I dreamt that I had recently moved into a new apartment with my family. It was doubtfully spacious, too spacious for anyone to live in indeed; and its ceiling was so high that I thought it's too lofty to behold. Apparently it's one of those fancy apartments because at night we could see the Victoria Harbour from the glassy walls around, and the view was stunning as always. I was more agitated than overjoyed though, and cross and upset to see my belongings scattered around in my new, roomy bedroom. I even saw strangers at home. The next thing I remember I did was to find a way out. Running into a vast, cold mall, one of those with reflective floors and neatly lined shops, I met a lady who was kind enough to help me when I got lost. She was attractive and graceful. I could not take my eyes off her and I started talking to her. She's carrying an infant in a baby trolley and told me she used to be a dancer.

This is how the dream has ended without an ending. Like a story but unlike a story. And if the objects and characters and the like are just metaphors, they're much more obscure than a poem. I wish Sigmund Freud could do something about this.