I dreamed that Salvador Dali was telling me about how to create dreamers. He took me to a maze within an enormous field of grass so tall you could hardly see over it. The doors of a small school house opened and a horde of children came running out towards the labyrinth of foliage. Yellow light reflected from everything. In the distance I saw small cottages and homes, sort of disappearing in the hilly landscape, sinking below the relentless blue sky.
“The trick,” Dali explained, “is to get them when they are early. You have to add that little piece of wonder to the child’s brain and then they can expand it on their own for the rest of their life…” Dali and I ran out ahead of all the kids in the grass, leading them towards an unreal horizon. Strings of color exploded everywhere, the glorious colors outlined the contours of all the hills and we glided upon them. It never occurred to me that Dali was dead until after I woke up, but it certainly startled me.
Some time later, I found myself in another dimension. Not exactly one of incredible visions, but something significantly mundane. I followed a friend to a dirtied garage made of pink and beige bricks. She explained nothing, at least not in regular words, but she did ask me what I was doing there. According to her, I had no reason to be there, and nothing there was of any use. Deplorable conditions ravaged the room. Water dripped over cliffs of mold, and rats sniffed about in the dark corners where their filth had accumulated. I discovered a large box, and was astounded to find everything that I had either lost or forgotten. My old drawings, soaking up water. Portfolios that had broken and disappeared long ago with withered toys. it was a box that held all the colors and repeated visions, the obsolete attachments of my former lives. But I was so relieved to find my pencil, stuck in the rings of my blue note book which contained all of my pending homework for writing. Such relief! I took them and left the room, completely unaware of the fact that none of it was actually happening. As soon as the dream faded out, the truth became apparent, but I had no time to feel disappointed.
I woke up in my room, where the night had irreversibly grown roots into every surface. My eyes became a spot light, pushing away the the surrounding darkness for a small circle of vision. A familiar roar bombarded my ears and I forced my body to stand straight and walk out from my bedroom. Something was clearly wrong. The furniture was all misplaced and deformed, and the colors pieced together from old photos from albums I will never bother to look at again. At this point, I knew very well it was a dream, but as I tried to remain stable and escape back to my paradise, everything began to shake. “Oh no!” I thought to myself “I’ve become too conscious—this universe is imploding!” And it was! The images cracked and rearranged at random, rocking back and forth behind a violent train. Sounds and shadows grabbed me, tossing me back and forth in the house. Even as I tried to escape through the front door, I saw that everything had already been swallowed by the night. No door existed, let alone anything outside of it.
Aside from waking up, I don’t recall what happened afterward. Hanging around in the clouds of my mind, I vaguely remember walking the winter streets of New York. At every dark alley another shady character stalked. Snow fell in the most gentle way imaginable, but I couldn’t help but think of it as ash after a volcanic eruption. The homeless had left their fires burning, and it enclosed the environment in a surreal hue of gold and red beneath the orange clouds. Every other building was a theater or costume shop, or abandoned. It was still night out—but the cold didn’t bother me. I wasn’t sure how I got there, or where I planned to go, but being their filled me with a sense of adventure. Wandering aimlessly made me feel alive.