Dreams have always enchanted us. As kid they were a portal to all of our fantasies. In youth, in them we saw our goals, our ambitions. But as we grow up, the dreams became just dreams. Not only they reduce in their frequency of occurrence. They also lose that vividness that were so common during our childhood, that really took us to a whole new different world.
But sometimes, rarely though, we see a dream that really takes us off guard. It takes us to a completely new world, or bring out a hidden and suppressed emotion. We get up and revel in its freshness, relish the prospect and bask in its light.
I have always been a deep sleeper, and my dreams as vivid as a reality. The dreams aren’t only vivid, they are lucid too. This meant, I am not just a passive observer in my dreams, rather I live inside my dream with a part of my conscious awake enough to force changes in my dreams to my liking.
Last night, I had the strangest of dreams. For I haven’t seen such a dream in my entire life yet. I saw Ernest Hemingway, one of the greatest writers this world has ever seen. This hasn’t happened before. Though I have idolized rock stars and sports players, still, they haven’t been a part of my dreamworld.
And here I was seeing Ernest Hemingway, in my dream, as a living entity in front of me. And not just in passing. I saw him as a person very much in my life. He was, apparently, a professor in my college. But his dressing sense had made me an odd observation in the current settings.
Everyone was giving him a strange looks. I on the other hand was floored the moment I saw him walking down the stairs. Initially I wasn’t sure who he was, but I had an instinctive feeling that he, indeed was Ernest Hemingway. I started following him.
With every passing second I became sure that he was Hemingway. As I came closer I started sweating for I was about to get face to face with one of the best writers ever. But as I approached nearer and nearer to him, I realize that he was knowingly trying to move away from me.
Generally in my dreams, when I realize an obstacle, or feel a strong desire to do something, my conscious and sub conscious interacts and alter the construction of dreams. This is what lucid dreaming does. So, in my past dreams, I have flown when I have felt a desire to touch the clouds, and went diving underwater like a fish when I longed for the depth of the ocean.
But this time, I don’t know why, I wasn’t able to do anything about it. The closer I approached him, the more frustrated I became. For I was always seeing his back, never his face. In a moment of whim, I ran past him and stood blocking his way. It was him. My idol. The writer who had defined writing of his era and generations to come.
I couldn’t utter a word standing in front of him. He, on the other hand, spewed fire from his mouth.
“WHY ARE YOU BLOCKING MY WAY?”, he shouted. “WHAT DO YOU WANT.”
“I . . . am . . . a . . . fan .. .Sir”, I managed.
“The hell you are fan. You are an aspiring writer. I know your kind. You want me to give you tips, perhaps review your draft. GET LOST. THIS IS NOT GOING TO HAPPEN.”
I was flustered, scared, and retreated as if I had seen a dinosaur. Confused, I waited for a second, my feet glued to the ground. And then he grew in size and stepped towards me with a sudden jerk.
I closed my eyes in fear, fearing that I had riled him. And that very moment when I had closed my eyes in dreams, I opened my eyes in reality. It took me a few seconds to realize that I was in the safety of my bedroom. The window was half open and a gush of cold air was ruffling the curtain, filling the room with December cold.
I got out of the bed and bolted the window. Then a smile broke on my face as I reflected on my dream. I could have talked to him, for at least a few minutes. Being a lucid dreamer meant that it was possible, even though in a dream.
But then I realized that in whatever way the dream was bound to end abruptly, in the same manner. For Ernest Hemingway was not known for his social skills. And he was just a manifestation of my subconsciousness which knew this attribute of his.
He was so absorbed in his work, that one time he thought of hiring a hideous looking man to sit outside his house and scare away all of his visitors by impersonating as Ernest Hemingway.
Still, a feeling of regret filled my heart, for it would have been an interesting conversation. With this thought I went back to my bed and closed my eyes hoping that dream continue from where I left off. This didn’t happen.
I am watching Game of Thrones these days, and now I am relishing the prospect of visiting the cold merciless Castle Black in the North or eating luscious fruits in the beautiful breathtaking Highgarden.
. . .