That’s where thinking started, where thinking stopped, where all her prayers so long ago had dried up. She no longer prayed, nor even dreamed of changing her father. Her dreams now played variations on the theme of escape. And they were nothing more than that —just dreams, just play. She’d been alone at the end of her dreams so many times before and never had God helped her escape her father, because God couldn’t, because she would never escape her need to love him.
The three of them knew it. She was Kafka’s mistress. Kafka had dreamt her. The three of them knew it. He was Kafka’s friend. Kafka had dreamt him. The three of them knew it. The woman said to the friend, Tonight I want you to have me. The three of them knew it. The man replied: If we sin, Kafka will stop dreaming us. One of them knew it. There was no longer anyone on earth. Kafka said to himself Now the two of them have gone, I’m left alone. I’ll stop dreaming myself.
I suppose it is submerged memories that give to dreams their curious air of hyper-reality. But perhaps there is something else as well, something nebulous, gauze-like, through which everything one sees in a dream seems, paradoxically, much clearer. A pond becomes a lake, a breeze become a storm, a handful of dust is a desert, a grain of sulphur in the blood is a volcanic inferno. What manner of theater is it, in which we are at once playwright, actor, stage manager, scene painter and audience?
Men speak of dreaming as if it were a phenomenon of night and sleep. They should know better. All results achieved by us are self-promised, and all self-promises are made in dreams awake. Dreaming is the relief of labor,the wine that sustains us in act. We learn to love labor, not for itself, but for the opportunity it furnishes for dreaming, which is the great under-monotone of real life, unheard, unnoticed, because of its constancy. Living is dreaming. Only in the graves are there no dreams.
I suppose it is submerged realities that give to dreams their curious air of hyper-reality. But perhaps there is something else as well, something nebulous, gauze-like, through which everything one sees in a dream seems, paradoxically, much clearer. A pond becomes a lake, a breeze becomes a storm, a handful of dust is a desert, a grain of sulphur in the blood is a volcanic inferno. What manner of theater is it, in which we are at once playwright, actor, stage manager, scene painter and audience?
Interestingly, this speech by Prospero does not contrast the unreality of the stage with the solid, flesh-and-blood existence of real men and women. On the contrary, it seizes on the flimsiness of dramatic characters as a metaphor for the fleeting, fantasy-ridden quality of actual human lives. It is we who are made of dreams, not just such figments of Shakespeare’s imagination as Ariel and Caliban. The cloud-capped towers and gorgeous palaces of this earth are mere stage scenery after all.
Life was about loss. One minute standing on the promise of your dreams, then free-falling backward into nothingness. Is this what it meant to grow old? To gradually be stripped of all you cared about. And then what? Were you supposed to spend the rest of your life, dreaming about the past while you waited to die? Or did you start a new life, set the cycle in motion once again. Take the chance of losing that, too. And if you did, what happened to the old life? Did it die away from lack of attention?
In the middle of the night, it was always the same. The dreams told the dreamer, pay attention. The dreams told the dreamer, consider this and consider that, and for the most part, it was fine to consider these things, to engage the subconscious in the exercise of willful consideration. Always the dreams told the dreamer, Let’s pretend the world is this way for a few minutes, I mean, no big deal, no commitment, just something to do until you wake up.Come on, say the dreams, it’ll be fun.
I had a dream about you. We picked up where we left off, with leftovers, and I said this was the best second-time dinner I’ve ever had a first time. Oh, I had it before, when it was fresh and first made, but this was the first time I was having it for a second time, and that made it special, like a tie at the Olympics. Would both winners get medals made of two metals, gold and silver? That’s what I thought about as I chewed the food as I tried to remember what it tasted like the first time.
لقد تعلمتُ واعتدت أن أستخرج من الأحلام التي لم تتحق قط ، أسبابًا متماسكة لمواصلة العيش
I had a dream about you. You were trying to swim across the Atlantic Ocean, and I figured I’d help you out so I brought a bucket to the beach and scooped out about a gallon of sea water. I was pleased with myself, because now you’d have that much less water to swim through. People have drowned on a gallon of water, so it’s very likely I saved your life. But I didn’t do it to be honored like a hero, though a parade would be nice. I did it for the free meals and the discounted sex.
With THC in your system, you don't dream. And you need to. Otherwise it is like losing one of your senses. Dreams are part of your wholeness. ... when you're dreaming, you're not the one calling the shots. So it's a reprieve. ... the dream world had rules in it. You couldn't read a clock in your dreams. It would not give you the time. If the lights were on in a room, you could not turn them off in a dream. ... in indigenous tribes all over the world, the dream world was like church. [p. 247]
memang begitulah hati manusia. Orang takut mengejar impian-impian mereka yang terpenting, sebab mereka merasa mereka tidak berhak memperolehnya, atau bahwa mereka tak mampu meraihnya. Kami, hati mereka, menjadi gentar hanya dengan berpikir tentang orang-orang tercinta yang akan pergi selamanya, atau tentang saat-saat yang seharusnya baik tapi ternyata tidak, atau tentang harta-harta yang mungkin mestinya sudah ditemukan tapi selamanya terkubur dalam tanah. Karena, saat hal-hal ini terjadi, kami sangat menderita.
If a dream can tell the future it can also thwart that future. For God will not permit that we shall know what is to come. He is bound to no one that the world unfold just so upon its course and those who by some sorcery or by some dream might come to pierce the veil that lies so darkly over all that is before them may serve by just that vision to cause that God should wrench the world from its heading and set it upon another course altogether and then where stands the sorcerer? Where the dreamer and his dream?
ﺍﮔﺮ ﮐﻮﺋﯽ ﺍﻧﺴﺎﻥ ﺧﻮﺍﺏ ﺩﯾﮑﻬﻨﮯ ﮐﯽ ﺍﮨﻠﯿﺖ ﺳﮯ ﻣﺤﺮﻭﻡ ﻫﻮ ﺗﻮ ﺍﺱ ﭘﺮ ﻓﺎﺗﺤﮧ ﭘﮍﮪ ﻟﯿﻨﯽ ﭼﺎﮨﯿﺌﮯ۔
