I think I might be dreaming.
I’m being strangled by this woman with the goggling purple eyes, my consciousness on the verge of leaving me, when I see, for a brief second, something that looks like a revolving lantern.
My sense of self becomes vague, and it’s as if I’m behind you, chasing after you, even though you should have already run off.
The boundary between you and I is becoming vague.
Is this your dream? Is it mine? Who is it that’s having this dream? You’ve reached a grim-looking gate at the end of this hellish passage. A coffin-like gate, painted black. It’s like the gates of Hell, and if this were Dante’s work, scrawled into it would be the words, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”
You’re heading into a place from which you cannot return, making an irreversible choice.
I reach out, but no matter how much I want to stop you, this woman who is malice itself holds me back, and I can’t move. Reaching out my hand is meaningless, it won’t get to you.
As you leave, all I can do is watch you go.
With your usual lack of caution, you pass through the gate and walk inside.
You’re like a baby, lacking the knowledge to protect yourself.
You walk along.
There are tons of street lights there amidst the darkness.
Some of the lamps are lit, while others are out. They’re like the fixated eyes of others, turning their gaze on you with great interest. The streetlights are lit, like shining eyes. However, the number of lights gradually decreases, and so too does the amount of illumination.
You are alone in that darkness.
However, next to you, a light appears. A mysterious lamp, bounding around on its own. That lantern alone is looking at you. Like it’s shielding you with its warm light.
You pick it up happily, and it illuminates your path as you hold it high.
That’s the only thing you have to rely on, to cling to.
You walk along.
Once again, you become lost in that sea of trees that reeks of death. You press on through the trees, all of them standing together without distinction, like they symbolize other people. Eyeballs sprout amid the thicket of trees and rudely stare at you.
Like you’re curious, or vulgar.
You only illuminate the area around you as you walk along.
It’s the type of deep darkness that, if it were not illuminated by streetlights, you wouldn’t be able to see your feet.
The eyeballs steadily increase, peering at you. Though you didn’t seem to notice before, it’s as if you’ve suddenly become aware, and you lower your head in embarrassment.
It’s like a funeral. People who might have ignored you during life now shower you in attention at your funeral.
That is the heart of the matter. There are people even shedding tears, though it’s far too late.
How terribly selfish.
Within that forest, there’s also that jellyfish-like thing that looks like gathered organs and makes a disquieting sound like the bells rung at funeral memorial addresses. Thus the forest seems even more like a funeral service.
It overflows with an aura of death, and of mourning.
There is finally a break in the trees, and there is an old train right before you. It’s old-fashioned, rusted, and broken — no matter how you look at it, it’s a decommissioned vehicle long past its service life. It doesn’t lead anywhere, the line it runs on broken up. It just sits there, abandoned, on display.
Within dreams, vehicles are a symbol of being carried off to another world.
You might be planning to take that ride somewhere.
Those troublesome stares that had been there until now have all disappeared. There’s no one to accompany you, as you’re headed somewhere no one wants to go.
You open the door of the train all by yourself and climb inside.
The moment you get on, the train begins to move. A loud clatter resonates, click-a-clack. The vibrations cause your braids to flutter. Where is it you are headed?
There is passenger seating inside the train, and those seats are occupied by beings that seem like passengers.
Like the girl with the hat and scarf, they’re painted black — like children that died before God could decide upon a face for them. Next to them sit creatures sprouting legs and eyes, as if they have birth defects.
They all seem innocent somehow, their legs kicking about here and there.
They seem like children.
You sit quietly in a space between those odd children.
The train just seems to go on and on endlessly, so you get out of your seat, seemingly bored. You open the door manually and head outside.
The black things that seem like passengers wave their hands, and the ones that look like children smile.
You walk for a bit, finally reaching a river.
It’s a broad river, with a bottom so far down, you can’t see it. It seems like it would drain away your will to swim across, in both its gloomy hue and its seemingly freezing temperature.
The boundary between the transient and the eternal, like the Sanzu River of the Buddhist afterlife.
A vast bridge stretches across the river, and you walk over it.
Standing around you are people in white clothing like that of the dead, looking a lot like ghosts. They’re like ghosts that have died and not completely crossed over, milling around the Sanzu River.
You walk on, unconcerned.
You cross the bridge over the river.
No.
Come back.
You can’t go over there.
I want to shout out to you, but I can do nothing.
The river is wide, the bridge is long, just stretching on and on. Within the river, coral and the remains of fish are visible. It’s like a giant town was flooded out. Like a world that has already ended. A world that was destroyed by something and brought to an end.
Upon death, the world built around “me” would come to an end.
The world would close out there.
It would be destroyed.
You finally reach the opposite side.
A dead tree stands there, all alone.
Humans grow a tree within their minds. A tree known as the self. It’s a tree that is nourished through wisdom and experience, emotion and love. Each person has their own variety and type of tree. What kind of flowers will it grow? What kind of fruit will it bear? Who will it fascinate, what will it yield, how will it keep the pests away? What kind of poison will it possess? How tall will it grow?
However, the tree there is dead.
An exhausted heart, bent halfway.
Yet you touch it.
You try to huddle close to it.
However, next to the dead tree is a symbol of evil — a dragon. Its uncannily large face sticks out of a small puddle. It breathes flames, setting you and the dead tree ablaze. You both burn.
Like at a witch trial.
Like “Joan of Arc at the Stake.”
She should have been the one to save the world, and yet she was judged and burned as a witch.
She disappeared, like someone turned to ashes at a crematorium.
And then I finally remember that you are dead.