For months now, I have had a recurrent dream that haunts me. Not in a creepy, scary way. It´s not a nightmare. It´s just a dream I have over and over again, and yet something has changed and it irritates me enormously.
I am alone in a white room and I´m sitting on a papier mâché moon and I´m swaying back and forth, as if the moon was a swing and I were on a play field. But I´m in this white room and there is nothing but white walls and a white floor. However, there´s no ceiling. And I try to push the swing further up, I put energy into it, pushing more fiercely and aggressively. The swing squeals under my effort, its rusty hooks are shaking; they become loose. Though I cannot tell where or what they are actually attached to, I think it´s a wooden collar beam, holding me and the swing that is a papier mâché moon.
I feel that if I can only swing higher, I might be able to see what´s behind these white walls. If I push hard enough and swing high enough then I can see past these walls and see the world behind it. But whenever I try, the walls seem to grow. The more effort I put into swinging higher, the higher the walls grow and I never get to see past them.
I wake startled and it takes me a while to remember where I am. My hands usually feel the fabric of the sheets, touching my body underneath it. I want to make sure it´s my body I´m in. I feel oddly out of place, out of body, even. I believe to feel the strenuousness of my attempts to swing high enough in my muscles. I need to drink something from the bottle that always stands on my bedside table.
For whatever it´s worth, I usually have no troubles going back to sleep. The moment I put the water bottle down and rest my head on my pillow, wondering about the message of my dream, marveling at the recurrence of the dream at the same time of night – I always wake at eight to four in the morning – that´s when I fall asleep again and I wake in the morning without as much as a shoal memory of the dream.
Yet somehow, and I couldn´t explain why, the dream changed. I am alone in a white room and I´m sitting on a papier mâché moon and I´m swaying back and forth, as if the moon was a swing and I were on a play field. But I´m in this white room and there is nothing but white walls and a white floor. However, there´s no ceiling. So at first, I put all my might into swinging high enough so that I can see beyond these walls that are my prison. But the more effort I put into it, the higher the walls grow and fate refuses me to see what awaits me beyond those walls.
This time, I stop trying. The moon swings back and forth and slowly, the swings die down, mirroring my giving up. As the moon slowly comes to a halt and stands erect in mid-air, I notice that the walls unnoticeably slowly crumble to the white floor and give way for the wonders that await me outside this white room.
The first few times, I was unable to see anything but blinding white outside my white prison. The more often the dream came to haunt me at night, the more I was able to adjust to the burning white light, to see the sand and the waves that break on the shore. Sometimes, I could see stones wet from the sea water, sea shells on the beach, once I detected a sandcastle standing forlorn on the white sand, abandoned.
Last night, I jerked out of the dream, startled. For the first time in months, I saw the little blue boat out on the ocean. And I sensed it was waiting for me.