On Dreams, Pt. VIII - In Which I Dream About Dream Making A Dream In The Dreaming

I had a dream the other day. I get my most vivid dreams when I'm towards the end of my sleep cycle and tend to roll over onto my back. I can't sleep well on my back, so I guess if I'm already asleep I only come part way out of it. Continuity becomes a little clearer, but I also question more, so questions often get answered if I ask them.

In this case, I dreamt the beginning of a Sandman comic, complete with panels, layout and word balloons, and the title, "The Creation."


"A rift opened between worlds.

Worlds ate other worlds.

It came first here to Atlantis, then others.

Those stars you see, they are the bits that remain.


You are a creature mysts, both winged child and my dark messenger,

and you ARE mine, for you know this. I am your creator, Dream, called Morpheus.


You may dwell in this place, which is yours. It is but a dwelling."


The opening panels are arranged in triangular shards with their focal point the top right-center of the page. The first shows two galaxy-like objects in a starry rift among others of their kind, with a brightening light between them as they draw near. The second, thinner shard shows a sucking void between streams of interstellar gasses and broken rocky bodies, the third a new universe emerging from the center of this mess, growing like merging soap bubbles. The last shows doric columns, broken and sunken beneath beneath water on a shallow sandbar, spare seaweed wafting in the current. No animal life is there.

The second quarter of the page reveals a new starry blue sky as seen from the ground, black and silhouetted. A single craggy tree reaches up into the moonless air from which the narrating voice emanates.

The bottom half of the page reveals newborn dream, a rocky, earthen Gollum with graying, gorilla anatomy. He is being informed of what he is, though he already knows much of it as it is told to him. The voicing of these truths is as ceremonious as they are formality. In utterance, they codify the many possible realms that be into the one which will persist.

The young dream looks up into the sky by the tree, then to the tree itself as it begins to take on an appearance similar to the young dream's own, rocky and marbled. Though ever-changing, it tends towards retaining a large, protruding jaw and almost nonexistent nose. Its voice is rich and full of gravel (a lower Keith David), and you know it to be speaking truths even as it binds you in servitude.

The voice points you towards your home, a wide, low medieval parapet made of the same stone as the young dream and built around a sapling that grows as the castle-like abode expands around it, drawing its material from and joining itself to the side of a swelling hill.


Apparently, this was a story from the "about" section of Death's personal website. Odd.

Right before this dream, I was also seemingly dreaming I was idly playing guitar in a high school I never attended, aware of the sensation of slowly growing fuller, with a kind of nervous, joyous energy I could not contain. I stood and began radiating this power as the lights around me and outside dimmed. A storm brewed out the window and I scream and stretch out my arms, though I cannot exhale through my mouth. I manage to bring my arms in so that I can rip my mouth open and breath comfortably, but in doing so release an explosive white light. I can now speak, but not as loudly as I thought.

I am birthing a new god. I frighten those classmates I do not like and reassure the one I had been talking to. I have released some kind of old, malevolent deity, but it is still my body, in fact thinner and weaker than it was before, somewhat more effeminate and theatrical, possibly gay, if a dark, old god enjoined with my own self in the creation of a new being COULD be called possibly gay. Frankly, I do not see why mortals limit their perceptions of themselves such.

Residual creation energy segues into "The Creation" as above.