The one who is angry, despair of life, she writes,
‘Life is a mistake, it is filled with mistakes and errors, you are haunted by your past mistakes, leads you to make a bunch of new mistakes! It is horrible! All I do is wrong, I take wrong decisions, chase wrong paths, and say wrong words! I am done. I hate everything. Please cut me a slack!’
Heat cools down, attention passes on to other things, for a while, she thinks again, she sees again, she starts writing again,
‘It is like writing, you make mistakes, you write again, you learn from past mistakes, you do not repeat it in the new, because you know now, but there comes another mistake, you learn another one. It’s a process, it’s a flux, and hence it’s not a straight line. You make mistake, you learn, you may repeat it again, because it’s a long run. Who keeps the score? If anyone, it’s you. What is your existence beyond life? If you are discussed, when you are gone, if you are remembered, when you are dead, it is by life, by another lived ones. A world devoid of life, might remember you with your elements and matters: carbons and oxygens, to its atomic level, but that’s not you, that’s all, all lives possess some or the same elements, every other life possesses those atoms as in you. Life celebrates life, life of the lived, life of the dead. You do not exist beyond life. Life does not exist beyond life.’
Dream is such a concept! It is more astounding than its regular apprehension! Once Freud stirred it real hard, not sure if anybody brought a revolution of that range ever again. Well, it is not going to be leaning on such concept or theory. But I wonder why dream has not been subjected to the mainstream episteme! Dream has impact over so many things, such as, everyday thought, emotions (dormant or active), actions (may be) and many more. There are bunch of famous or not-so-famous or even not-known-at-all people put down their everyday dreams, decode them and give them real meaning. American novelist Jack Kerouac composed his Book of Dreams after his day-to-day (or rather night-to-night) dreams. So many people do not even remember their dreams or may be simply ignore them (especially those whose actions are driven by what, is hard to track on). I am a wonderer of dreams forever. Those dreams I remember from last night or the one from long ego, suddenly popped up through a course of actions, felt like déjà vu. I stop, think and try to find out the deformed metaphor hidden in them. I have just a little familiarity with psychoanalysis and this genre fascinates me.
There are certain places or emotions, I figured, keep appearing in my dreams like recurrent themes! Among other prevalent themes like space, decadence, being chased, relieved life, meeting the desire and so on, the theme of landscape is very prominent (more like topographical dreams)! Most of the story revolves around me, discovering a mystery-place led by narrow lanes, not fully impassable but a bit risky, quite secluded from crowd and common interest, as if anyone scarcely knows of its existence! Each time it would appear in different forms, once it was a waterfall upon a small waterbody, placed like a surprise amidst a lost forest. Another time it was a cliff from where the best sun set could be seen: the perfect tint of orange, yellow ochre and burn sienna syncing in a socked paper! There would be a shadow tree, black, unidentified. I would sit there calm in stasis like nothing bad had ever happened to me, like a newborn’s clean slate, only cherishing every scoop of what my eyes could see. A few people would be there this time, but they are strange, as if they do not belong to my world or time, they would walk past me like I am invisible, some of them would carry dry branches fallen off the trees stacked on their head, they would work their own, rustic life, like of countryside. I would have mixed emotions of suspense, worry (of my unnoticed absence/escape from home/ work) yet satisfied of the ‘terrific beauty’ I was relishing (Oh! It rings a bell! Like Thomas Wilson in the island of Capri, straight from Maugham’s story? But it started even before I read the story). Feels like I have travelled the time backward, in the primitive earth when it was not crowded, either with people, or our complexities. Like the narrow labyrinthine lane is a time-tunnel separating the world of now and then. The place always feels like an ideal space for the self to soothe and erase the trampling burdens; a proper escapade. Sense of being chased by unknown danger, impeding thorn walls and fear of exposure remains, for I liked the fact that I am the only one knew the existence of the place and did not want it to be littered by others.
As per the interpretation of my dream goes, I found many aspects. My love for solitude and seclusion or taking the road ‘less travelled by’ is basically inspired by my hatred for being commanded and competed. Even in real course of actions I am at my best when I am unnoticed or away from the race. Comparison and imposed expectations are those thorn walls encumber my brain like a negative reinforcement. I have always been influenced by others’ actions, I had to, that littered my spontaneous self/ space, and I think, I could have had done far better without those mental hydraulic pressures affecting my headspace. At least that is what I think, and thought is pulled away in the Subconscious, eventually bubbles up as dreams. Talking about how dream actually intervenes real actions or emotions seems like another string to pull, but later. I have felt its effect, transitory but effective, because it is a circle, differently processed but it is to acknowledge that one’s thoughts sediment, crumple and evaporate as dreams, hence dreams are the mental projection of thoughts through processed metaphors, sometimes much complex, sometimes linear, but I believe, an analytic mind can decipher its own tricks. I have had some exquisite dreams, difficult to narrate or make them sound Hitchcock-ish, but every time they left me in awe about how our brain works, really!
Postscripts: Speaking of metaphors, even this web space works like a metaphor to me, not like a ghost-space but it is seen/read by people around the globe (especially by those whom I do not even know). Recently I was going through a social media survey by an institutional research group where they asked a very thoughtful yet factual question, to rephrase, it was quite like, whether or not my social media impressions leave tracks of my lifestyle or current status. This space might not have such serious coherence like that of the question but it does feel like the mystery-place, one might read and explore or it becomes solely mine, only this time I don’t have the fear of it being littered.
Society expects conformity. And too much conformity engulfs one’s individuality. Being too good or too bad gives you identity or else you are ‘lost in space’, I mean into the abys of existence, perhaps.
‘You showed individuality’ said she to Princess Margaret, ‘and that made people panic. They don’t want individuality. The last person who showed “character” took almost the ship down.’(The Crown)
Hence it appears that conformity and individualism do not go hand in hand, but can’t they be allied? Where individuality and identity share their light, conformity is a gigantic shadow. Their coexistence could be a haze, a chaos but that’s what runs in the universe. Each planet, per se, is followed by its given trajectory, implies its conformity to its governing star having perfectly balanced individuality or rather say identity. So do the other unnumbered celestial entities, one goes supernova and slurped by a black hole. There comes the subtlest dots of existence, the humanity has its questionable outlook for the preservation of traditions, meaningless deference, rigid practices and crores of self-made labels to follow and unfollow. The matter of fact is that the extremities collide where cohabitation sustains harmony. But is it that easy? You may say collision is the one that creates, equilibria stands still. That’s why it’s a mosaic, an admixture of each a thing altogether.
Words, Meaning and the Nothing 