For nearly 10 years I experienced the same dream each night. I'd like to share that dream and the steps I took one day, whilst awake, in an
attempt to understand.
I lived deep in the valley. Trees everywhere; everywhere green. My memories would have it that it was always misty. An ever present chill, but
never too cold. Moist and hazy; low all-pervading clouds sunk perpetually on the mountain tops, dropping into the valley below.
Every night I dreamt of the railway track. A singular track that runs parallel with the valley; stretching from the highest mountains down to the
distant lowland sea. Abandoned, unused. A central feature of this ancient valley village; in clear sight but seemingly forgotten.
Every night, in my dreams, I walked down the tracks.
Every night I felt the mist on my face, the pine clear air in my lungs and the melancholic aura of beauty. The beauty of oppressive mountains. A
beauty I could see but could not feel. I felt the suffocating silence of the mist drown my thoughts, while distanced church choirs skirted the edges
of my conscious mind.
Every night I walked 2 miles.
Every night I reached the metal gates. The gates that took me to where my passed family and ancestors lay. The creaking gate silenced, the damp
grass spongy beneath my feet to their graves. I remember the stone, crystal cold and beautiful; an inadequate anchor of their past existence.
And then I wake. Every night.
One day I decide to follow the steps of my dreams. A day much like my dream; silent, damp, forever green.
I climb the barrier to the tracks and walk. I breathe in deep the moist valley air and thoughtfully listen for the muffled sounds of silence. In my
mind, I hear the choir. It's not there; but the traces of music are so deeply embedded that my mind instinctively associates it with each step. Much
like a carefully rehearsed soundtrack.
The melancholy follows me also; seemingly a residue from the path I have followed so many times before.
I am in distanced awe of the beauty that surrounds me. The beauty that somehow exists unnoticed. A beauty clear but separated; though viewed through
glass. I realise this makes me feel sadness. No, not sadness. Something similar; a feeling I cannot identify or rationalise.
In wake, the distance to the gate is far shorter. The iron gates, ornate and touched by the misery of many, are pained to open; groaning as I heave
them forward. The distance to the graves is further than my dreams would have me believe.
I reach the headstones; this time more cold and less beautiful. Unspectacular and worn with the ages.
I have thoughts about the transience of life. I will have nothing to mark my existence than such a stone. A stone that will be as temporary as my
life. Tended to sporadically; remembered less with each passing day, week, month and year. Forgotten as the generations pass.
And yet this does not make wish for anything different.
I find myself realising that I do not fear death.
I feel confused, but I do not know why. The feeling is powerful. It overwhelms. I sit, looking at the furthest forest valley mountain, searching
for meaning. Searching for understanding. Searching for something.
Slowly, the mists of my mind start to lift. Slowly, I begin to understand. I fear my dream...
The detachment from what surrounds me; the disconnection; sensations without feeling and the isolation of thoughts.
As my thoughts continue, I realise that when I am awake it feels no different. I feel no different. It's no more real than my dreams.
Cold and complete clarity overwhelms me.
It's not my dream I fear, it's life. MY life. My life, no more connected to life or living than my dreams.
I look back at the mist covered mountains and wonder why. I still wonder.
edit on 20/2/11 by lizziejayne because: (no reason given)