a lost dream redeemed.

It was an ordinary summer's night when subtropical heat was overabundant and calmness insufficient. When morning came there was nothing she could do to shake off the dreams she had overnight. Some dreams slipped away, some didn't. And these were the ones that remained. 

Whether she had dreamed of him or it was actually he who had sleepwalked into her subconsciousness she did not know. It troubled her all the same because she was a dreamer who knew too well that dreams were a dangerous signal, in extreme circumstances an irrevocable prophecy. They foresaw things that were invisible.

She had three dreams.

In the first one he kissed her.

The second one came along not as a sequel but a distracted stream of time that wiped itself out. The second dream was so unimportant that the instant it came into being it was consumed by absolute forgetfulness.

Her conscious self from the first dream was well-preserved in the third one. It was as if she had survived the distance of a lifetime and had eventually retrieved her lost self. But it was not enough. It was a lost dream that she had to retrieve, a dream in which they both existed.

It was wonderful how a dream could allow a setting, a consciousness, and above all a feeling with such complexity. She was sleeping, her mind at rest, but in fact she was adrift in a realm of unbridled mental wilderness (if not madness) which rendered everything restless (if not reckless).

She kept walking and walking around the neighbourhood to look for him. The streets were steep and narrow and the buildings looked like blocks of torn paper with stains that stayed forever. She didn't recognise the place but somehow she understood it was the east side of the island. On her left hand side she saw the harbour that separated thousands of lovers. 

And there he was.

yellow raincoats.

they were to meet at the cinema when it rained. people passed them by like shadows, with faces that she didn't remember. in fact she didn't remember anything except the yellow raincoats which must have come all the way from her childhood, now a piece of memory as estranged as a midsummer hallucination. 

she had been waiting for him. as soon as he arrived he brought the rain, rain that commenced as drizzles as light as dreams, and intensified whenever she looked at him, until water permeated into her skin and gave her a false sensation of love. 

everything faded away with the first ray of morning light that traveled through her window and woke her up. almost everything, except the brightness of the yellow raincoats, the touch of the rain on her skin and the residues of his face.

夢中人。

昨晚造了一個夢，我在旅途上，跟朋友一起，在一個清新的小鎮，遇上一個愛我的人。樸實的臉、黑短髮、白襯衫。他手織了兩束玫瑰花，一束紅，一束綠，送來讓我挑。我要了紅色那束，說了謝謝，心裡感動得不可言喻。後來我記得有水、有沙丘、晴天、安靜的鎮，鎮上沒太多人。我到哪他都陪我去，在他身邊有一種安全的感覺。然後天亮了，夢結束了，他也消失了。

一個晚上，三個夢。

一．

深夜，我們到山上去，很高很遠的山上。晚了漸寒，狂風不饒人，他們說，給你帶了暖衣裳，趕快穿上。是一件粉藍色的大衣，藍是很淺淡柔和、嬰孩那種藍。醒來以後我想起這顏色，是跟我幾年前無緣無故丟了那件一樣的。崖上的晚風強烈，坡上的野草都被吹得歪斜在一邊。我從大石後探頭出來，仰望夜空，繁星如燈，拼湊出一個似曾相識的圖像。它像我們居住的島，可是如今不在地上，在天上。我們看得傻了眼，都沒說話，就怔怔的抬頭觀望那一片奇異的星空。

二．

也是夜晚，日本餐廳，木造的地板牆壁檯椅，所有裝潢都是木的，顏色深深淺淺的木。我坐著一邊吃飯一邊等他，可是等了好久他才下班趕來。都已經十點了，我看著一桌涼了的飯菜，說，餓了，快吃吧。我又高興，又有點無奈。然後我問經過的侍應小姐可不可以弄熱那碗吃了一半了的拉麵。她笑容燦然，說當然可以。

三．

晚上，廣闊的大球場，像港大 Pitch 2‭ ‬那種。成千上萬面目模糊的人們我一個不認得，他們排著隊等著投球，投不好的，便要死。有一個女的想逃，被抓起來，逼著先投，球著地，她竭斯底里叫著，但也沒有用。死亡其實是其他人說的，我只見人被抓了去，可是去哪呢我不清楚，也沒真正看見人死。可是當每個人都在說同樣的事，每個人都放下自己的眼睛相信別人的嘴巴。一片恐慌驚惶的狀態。忽然下起雨來，很大很大的雨，我撐著傘負責收集他們的信（別問我為甚麼，我也不知道）。然後，我便記不起然後了。

魔鬼。

昨晚又夢見他。又是很迂迴古怪沒有半點邏輯可言的情節。魔鬼把他抓了，它對我說，你用你自己來交換吧，用你的痛苦、你的身體，看你願不願意。我說，我願意，為了他我甚麼都願意。

然後我被丟進烈火裡邊，因為痛楚，我聲嘶力竭的呼喊。不知燒了多久，魔鬼把我放出來，好像很滿意似的。可是這只是開端，後來，後來還發生了很多事情，可是我都不記得了。魔鬼，的確最懂人心。半夜醒來，看見鮮血還沒有乾。夢斷了便無法繼續下去，而睡眠像深淵，我沉到最底，一睜開眼睛，噢，原來如這樣晚了。

破夢兒。

醒來以後，一枕的破夢兒。我努力去想，但記不得多少。洗臉的時候幾乎已經完全忘了，只隱約記得夢裡有雨，在夜裡。出門的時候也是有雨的，是那種不打傘會濕透的雨。撐開木長傘，握著木的手柄有種厚實的感覺。走了一分鐘的路，雨驀地停了，天空一片清藍，浮著白雲。清早是個安靜的時份，陌生的路人，夢遊似的安靜的走著，像我剛醒來不久，多少睡眼惺忪還在半睡的狀態，多少還像我一樣想著昨晚一堆破夢兒。

夢中的花園。

然後，我夢到花園。

花園裡有水池，繁花似錦。我遊於園中，從日色至夜色漸至。忽然下雨，我獨立路上，有人拉我一把，我便從夢中醒來。

醒來以後，已很難以文字把夢的記憶重新建構起來了。只剩破碎的些兒，斷續的片段，就算勉強拼湊起來，始終不成樣子。

she.

Goya.

i dreamt of her last night. and them. all of them around the table right next to us. and i saw myself watching them from a distance, not knowing what to do, wishing there'd be a cloak to veil my presence. then she came and talked to me as we'd reconciled, and she hugged me from behind. it felt so real that i could remember the texture of her grey hoodie when her arms brushed against my face. i was intimidated. i thought my blood must have frozen and ceased to flow. i knew the past had just come back and haunted me like the spirit in the red room. but instead of screaming and banging on the wooden door, i opened my eyes wide to watch myself die.

關於夢。

「當我想起那個曾經被遺忘的夢時，它已經聚積了過多的能量，變得比現實更沉厚，就像切實地發生過的事情那樣，無法輕易地把它從腦內剔除。在夢裡那人以垂釣者的姿態站著，就像城市內其他無法適當地舒展四肢的人。我知道他的名字是白，雖然他從不曾說出自己的名字。」

＊＊＊

「從宿舍到圖書館側旁那公園的路途，剛好足夠回想一遍那一度丟落的夢，補足了夢的片段和片段之間殘缺的部分。我便看到了那些緊挨著彼此的背部，都是黯淡的藍和紫，彷彿是天空某片巨大烏雲的倒映，或，那只是許多人的同時吐出和吸入灰色煙霧所造作的氛圍。」

《縫身》韓麗珠

醒來以後我又遺失了那個夢。

醒來以後我又遺失了那個夢。

萬念之生，來時無休止，如微塵於日光中翻滾流轉，懸浮於半空而不滅，雖可見，但並無手之觸感。

夢裡有一個世界，獨立於現實。我常感覺，睡眠是一道門，雙目合上，片刻入睡，如現實之門的閉掩，另一道門，卻立時敞開至世界另一端夢境之空間。我便從白天的自身之中分裂成另一個體，步向門，進入夢的方向。

不知從何時開始，我在夢裡開始不斷的旅遊。夢境如禪境，無始亦無終。一張開眼睛，便發現身在異處，無前因，亦無後果。有時候，是一個未知的新鮮的地方，有時候，卻明明白白，知道自己回去了，回去了舊地，還認得路。方向是不完整的，有時走了一半會忽然兀地終止，像電器斷線一樣了結前路。

昨晚，我夢見自己站在日本的鐵路月台上，昏暗的燈光下，我像看電影似的目睹我孤身一人，意義像周遭的日本文字，不明所以。然後一切消逝如同燈滅，月台消失，我也消失了。

夢遊

還是在造夢。

有一晚，夢見鱷魚成群。她在人群中，可怖的長髮依舊如鬼魅，又可憎又可厭，我受驚過度，幾近魂飛魄散，馬上躲起來，生怕她看見我，吵鬧一頓，又得死去活來。這女人，比半生緣的祝鴻才有過之而無不及，都是生來禍世，比鱷魚更可怖。那天早上，我是驚醒過來的。

有一晚，夢見人在旅途上，在不知名的野外，旅遊車上，透過車窗，看到絕色風景，河水長清，紅樹林立，不過匆匆一瞥，掠眼而過。好風光不留人。夢遊，不就是如此。醒來之際，惺忪之間，還以為自己仍在異地，旅館床上。

有一晚，夢見奇特地貌，深灰土地，猶如月球上的荒野，一圈一圈水淹了似的。夢中我卻驚喜不已。

有一晚，我夢見一個英國小鎮，人還穿著維多利亞時代衣服。 Sherlock Holmes 他要把我們留下來，我不依，便乘馬車到倫敦去。在市集左逛逛右轉轉，後來來到 Imperial College，驚見友人在台上歌唱。離開以後，便繼續漫遊我熟悉的，陽光普照著的，維多利亞時代的倫敦。

夢境如斯，原因不明，不知從哪兒來，夢來了以後，又不知往哪兒去。有試醒來以後悄悄記住了，有些還沒有張眼，便隨日光蒸發，猶如朝露，不可久留。

dream 19 march

I had dreams about you again. I ran into you on the street. You brought me hairpins, the kind of black, simple ones which school girls use for school. I thanked you, saying I was just in need of those. Then you told me you were on your way to buy a lipstick for her, but that you're not sure about the pink. I said it's not the right kind of colour, that one with a slight tinge of orange would suit her much better instead. Trust me, I said, because it's exactly the same one I had been using.

on dreams.

24 July 2011

I.

had a dream of you again. 'again' as in so many times that i have already given up to count. this time it was a long, incessant one across the night which left me awoke in a state of fatigue.

II.

accidentally you were here and then i did everything trying to keep you with me for as long as i could. you took my hands. my heart still trembles into my bones when i come to think of it as if an inevitable fact. you were fast asleep then like an infant, the softness of your existence smoothed out the night. i looked at you in silence. my eyes refused to remove themselves from the very sight of you. i'm certain it's the point when i went deepest in sleep beacuse it's the point when i wanted time to paralyze for ever after. now that the dream has diminished into memory it becomes a jumble of secondhand fragments. i can no longer re-construct it, not to mention re-tell it, the way i experienced it.

III.

i'm disappointed that even in a dream my mind is so much mastered by sense and overpowered by reason. i had to conceal myself from getting closer to you and i had to reason against my own reason of love. i followed my heart anyway, despite the guilt. but i can still see them staring with an eye of suspicion.

IV.

it's amazing how the very notion of time can become totally twisted and elastic (but never irrelevant) in the territory of dreams. i know beause i am a frequent dreamer. i have seen a lot of things in dreams (e.g dinosaurs, lifeboats, london in moonlight, ghosts, japanese soldiers, wars, students, colleagues... an inexhausible list goes on) but i have never seen a clock. i consider it fortunate as i am not the least interested in knowing the passing of time, not when i am dreaming. the end of time means the end of a dream, which every so often upsets me, for sometimes i don't want to wake up at all but time drags me out of it with force.

daylight broke in as a constant reminder of parting. it outshone our shortlived belonging. what i remember next is that they came searching for you. your cell phone kept vibrating with malignant messages and calls. finally we were sent back to our seperate worlds and our tie broke again like a fragile sewing thread. the next soonest time i get to see you again i know i'll be in dreams. and i always wonder if it's possible that two people are sharing the same dream at the same time.

V.

the remembrance of you weighs upon me like a book with a story that only gets longer and longer in time. it's however written in a language which i don't know. what am i supposed to do.

armageddon

On the eve of the year of dragon I dreamed of the end of the world (again). It's always about water. Everywhere was flooding like hell. Waves and waves of water plunged indoor incessantly, and we were trying to escape from the angry tides which kept rising and rising. People were fleeing like ants away from a flooded pithole. The slow ones were instantly swallowed by water, dark and cold and heavy like sewage from the gutter. I was terrified. You held me tight and kissed me, telling me everything would be alright. I didn't remember the ending, but I think it's alright to die, as long as we die together.

stranger on my lips

Birthday, Chagall. 1915.

 Last night a stranger kept teasing me and making me feel bad about myself. I was sulking when suddenly the lights were off and in the invisible darkness he kissed me on my lips. Then the dream came to a halt. There's nothing else I could recall.

Dream no.8

I and My Village, Marc Chagall

6am.

The instant my alarm clock went off the dream had just faded into daylight.

I dismissed the buzzing and decided to stay in bed for five more harmless minutes. As I got up and dragged myself to the washroom, my mother told me T8 is on. I was in such a hazy trance that I was for a moment lost and wasn't sure what to feel and what to do next. I turned on the television to make sure, and it was sure. Surprised - I was asleep even more peacefully despite the howling of the winds, so it didn't occur to me that the tropical cyclone is one with such intensity. The next thing I did was to text one of my friends at school and inform her of the news so that she wouldn't have left home without knowing.

Then I went straight to bed in the hope of going back to the dream, which has already been the third  of the same kind in September. As I rested my head on the pillow, I began to rummage through the details. They kept reaching out for me with such immediate vividness in spite of the disruption in between. 

I remembered there was rain. Quiet, untroubled rain. Holding a black umbrella, I was setting foot in a strange, elaborate landscape vastly mapped out in front of me.  I wasn't afraid and I  vaguely believed it's going to lead me somewhere. The raindrops were clear and transparent as they dripped from the eaves; leaves of the potted plants swayed gently in the breeze. I saw my reflection in the mirror-like water in the pond. Every creature looked so real as if they had a life of their own, and they'd been living in a world of their own undisturbed until I came.

I travelled through the corridors and halls and at last I found you awaiting me. It's now your room I found myself in. It didn't look quite the same as the one you really have, but that's how it manifested itself to be. And you're not quite the same person as you really are, but that's how the dream had you to be. I didn't find it strange though, instead I found it perfectly natural and comfortable as if we're meant to be there, together with each other. You talked to me with your usual countenance, and made a joke about hiding me here away from the rest of the world. You said this with an easy manner, and I laughed at it, with a swell of warmth inside, a feeling pressed into my heart. We stayed this way for a length of time. From the walls there were eyes watching, but non of us cared.

That's all of the remains I could recall. With my head still rolling sideways on the pillow, I could not find my way back to sleep. Somehow I knew that when it's over, it's over.  But I reviewed at the dream and was bewildered more than ever. I couldn't help believing that everything was real. It's the texture of the dream.  It's not only vision, but even the temperature, the people around, the layout of the surroundings, the way you speak, my way of thinking, it's like they are alive with sophistication, and have altogether built a world out there, where they'd let you in if they like, but  would shut you out for most of the time.

Sometimes it feels so real that it's leaking into my consciousness, that when I wake up at day, I would think that things did happen, and it would take me a while to finally realize that no, it didn't. But it isn't imaginary either. It's just dreams that have come uninvited, unintended.

On such a day with such weather outside, I am pleased to find myself feeling calm and serene, reminiscing about such a dream.

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.

parallel universe

The Sleeping Gypsy, Henry Rousseau

As night lengthens dreams start to find their way back at sleep. They slip through the linen, creep into the blanket, and loiter about my pillow.

Last night I dreamt of a parallel universe.

I had no idea I was dreaming, but I was sober, living in a day as it should be lived with the rationale of a dream. I can't really recall the details, except one scenario when I was staring at the russet sky overcast with clouds and suddenly came to the realization that there's another dimension of life in which I also exist, though perhaps in a different way, in a reality not quite the same with the one that dominates my perspective. The two worlds are going on at the same time, not with one being the present but the other the past or future. They just co-exist. Then I felt consoled, my troubled mind at peace because of the hope of an alternative.

This is the point when I opened my eyes and found myself on my bed. The sun had not risen.