Finally, I reach the highest part of the hill.
The peak.
When I look behind me, it is a mountain of unbelievable height. It seems I have reached its highest point. There, the ground is a bit cracked. A small hole gapes there, spewing steam that seems to hint at good fortune and to invite sleep.
That hole looks like a crater. It looks like magma, the Earth’s lifeforce itself, could come flowing out. On the other hand, it looks like it could lead to a mysterious and wondrous land. That hole really is so small, and save for a miracle, it does not seem like one could get inside. It is a realistic hole, one that won’t open, no matter how much magic or mysticism one puts into it.
However, I try to go farther in. There’s nowhere else to go, unless I fold myself up and proceed through this hole. If I lop off my appendages and my head, I could make myself smaller. No, concentrate myself. Like a jewel. I try to fold myself up, over and over, but nothing changes.
I try over and over.
Even though I feel like giving up, I muster my courage.
I devote myself to this exhausting effort.
I suddenly fall into the hole.
I can’t make a decent landing, and I hit my backside hard. A violent pain causes me to shriek. But, it doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t. Endure, endure... I grind my teeth and withstand the impact and agony of what it feels like to be crushed.
I stand up.
There is a stairway right before me. It’s a rusted, unreliable stairway that looks like it’s on the verge of crumbling. It’s constructed in a spiral, like DNA, and likely leads deep underground. It stretches farther in, deeper in.
I don’t know where it leads. However, it’s my one and only path. I can no longer turn back. I timidly descend. With each step, the stairs creak, echoing a disquieting sound. Like a dangerous walk across a tightrope.
Finally, the stairway snaps partway down, and I fall once more. This time, it’s not from that great of a height. I soon hit the ground, giving me no time to prepare my body for impact.
I feel like crying.
I sit up, then stand.
I’m in terrible state with my clothes dirtied and torn, but I’ve made it somehow. Maybe it’s the deepest part of the dream. Further, further, and further in still. It’s normally a place where one can’t reach. Surely, within the collective unconscious.
Numerous broken machines are kept here.
They’re huge machines, ones that look like trains. Just as the body is a vehicle for genes, for life. That’s what they appear to symbolize. The trains are completely worn down, with breakdowns and broken parts here and there. They’re vehicles that are broken down and, without serious repairs, will never move again.
They are heavily damaged mechanisms.
But, they’re still here.
I think as I walk along, dizzy, leaning against the machines for support.
They’re broken down. They’ve fallen ill, gotten tired, and seem ready to give up living. This is my heart, my mind, my life, in this very state. I wasn’t that strong of a vessel. I broke down, let off sparks, lived on, dragging along this husk in desperate need of repair.
However—
I think I have made a huge mistake. The vehicle is broken, but it’s still here. The one who decides whether or not it’s truly useless is me.
No, from the beginning, it was me myself.
This is my dream.
My unconscious.
Within my mind and heart.
The girl with the hat and scarf, those monochromatic sisters, that doctor, all of them are denizens of my dreams. My shadow selves. I can’t speak about anything I don’t know, but that doesn’t mean that’s all there is to the truth.
I tried to admonish, blame, and abandon my shadows — the antagonizers of my ego. Isn’t that evasion? Isn’t that running away? I miscarried my precious child, and she was lost. I fell ill. That’s what I believed.
What if that weren’t true?
What if it were just anxiety, the screams and cries of the shadows, of my unconscious mind? What if truth and reality were different?
What if it had just been a pregnancy riddled with anxiety — anxiety about whether or not I could successfully give birth, about whether I could properly love and care for her? I was afraid of miscarrying and losing my child. No, in that situation, my stomach would just get lighter. I would feel relieved somehow. That’s all I thought.
If I had just quit from the start, I would have felt despair, but nothing worse.
In order to protect my heart and mind, I pretended not to see my own child, about to be born.
From the beginning, I resigned myself to your death and just let myself go on thinking that way.
How ridiculous. I am the worst. Of course, this is just my imagination. I no longer know the difference between right and wrong, or where the truth lies.
But, I want to believe it. From the very depths of ruin, it would be infinitely better.
At the same time, what if my imagination is correct—
I was so sorry.
In my dreams, that girl has died over and over. You, who flew, fell, and died. I sacrificed you in order to protect my own heart and mind. I distanced myself, pretended not to see, averted my eyes. I decided that it was preferable for you to die so I didn’t have to feel pain. Because you were someone else. Because it didn’t have anything to do with me. That’s what I had begun to think.
Of course, unconsciously.
But that’s too horrible. I regret it.
I’m so sorry I’m weak, and I gave up. I’m sorry. But—
But you’ve been right here.
I look up. There is a large life form. It looks like a monster. A monster writhing and moaning in pain......
This is the fruit of my distorted heart.
It looks like a fetus. A frail, dainty, and precious life, with no way to protect itself. Sealed away in the depths of the dream, in the deepest part of my mind, is you. I draw close to you. I apologize over and over, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
I’m sorry.
I won’t forget again. I won’t seal you deep down here, pretending I don’t see you. I won’t let you feel lonely again. I’ll be by your side. I draw the thing that looks like a fetus near. I hold you, feel your body heat.
It’s warm.
I feel like I’m getting sleepy.
There are times where dreams have predicted reality.
Those could have been coincidences. Or perhaps it was instinct, peeking out statistically from the collective unconscious. Prophecies. Future predictions... So it could be possible that someday, I may have to see you in that absolute worst state, a future where you fly, fall, and die.
However, I will go to great lengths to make sure that doesn’t happen.
I will be brave and draw you close.
I will protect you.
Until you disappear from my dreams, until you come forth from my belly, I will continue to draw you close like this.
I will liberate you, unharmed, so that you are no longer imprisoned in these dreams.
Someday, you and I will no longer be able to share a dream.
I will not be in your dream.
As you will not be in mine.
Because you’ll be gone, at least from my dreams, and we’ll bid farewell.
But, I will find you in reality.
I will hear your first newborn cries.
You will surely open your eyes and look at me.
And with a broad smile, I will say, “Good morning.”