The Hexacoto

Listening to the sound of one hand clapping

Tag: dreams

Tear it apart

“Get me out of this dream, tear it apart,” some teenager told me in my dream.

This is certainly one of the weirdest and most self-destructive dreams I’ve had, where a member of my dream tells me to rend my dream world apart so that I could wake up.

I had a cup of tea before bed, because I was thirsty. I could still fall asleep regardless; caffeine doesn’t keep me awake as it does other people, but its diuretic properties still apply. So basically when I drink coffee or tea, I don’t get particularly energised, just the urge to pee a lot.

Anyway, I dreamt that I was going deep-sea fishing with a group of people on a yacht. The yacht was going really fast, that it was hard to walk properly on the decks. Suddenly, within the dream, I felt like I needed to pee. So I went down into the cabins to use the toilets. As I proceeded to pee within the dream, I heard a voice say, “You know that peeing in the dream is not going to absolve your need to pee in real life, right?”

I finished peeing in the dream and opened the toilet door, and there was a teenager.

“I need to pee,” he said.

“You can have the toilet,” I told him.

“This one doesn’t work. You know it doesn’t mean anything.”

“So what do you want me to do then?”

“Get me out of this dream,” he said.

“What?”

“You heard what I said. Get me out of this dream, tear it apart,” the teenager said.

The yacht was still buzzing and vibrating as they do when they’re in operation, and the yacht was still rocking from speeding on water.

“Ok fine. I’ll get you out,” I said.

We backtracked through the cabin.

“You’re not doing anything!” the teenager whined.

“I am, hold on! You can’t just tear a dream apart so quickly like that. You have to do it in stages,” I said, whilst still walking. I pushed a double-door apart forcefully. It stayed opened, but the world was still intact; the yacht was still a yacht. While a part of me wanted to stay in the dream, I knew I was already dismantling the dream apart.

“Do it more forcefully. Rip it to shreds!” he said.

I said nothing, and continued striding out of the cabin. We walked up the stairs that would lead to the deck. There was one final double-door, made of glass and wood.

“Fine,” I said, and pushed the doors apart forcefully, and this time as the doors were pushed apart, there were claw marks and parts of the door were in shreds and hung as if it were made of cloth.

We were on the back of the deck and continued walking forwards. It took only a few steps before we walked over the edge of the yacht and started floating in air, but we kept walking.

“Tear it apart,” the teenager said again.

I tore the scene in front of me — the turtle-green sea stretching out in front of us and below us and cherry-blue skies above us — apart and stepped through it.

Then I woke up, felt a little sorry for all the inhabitants of the dream that I destroyed, and went to the toilet for real this time.

Waking dreams

It is often said that dreams are manifestations of the subconscious; I find that very plausible. As if spending every waking moment being reminded that I have yet to find a job is not enough, I am dreaming about them in my sleep too.

I have always had the ability to remember my dreams pretty well, though I am not sure that’s a gift.

I am back in Singapore, but instead of returning to my parents’ home, I go to my grandmother’s. “You’re back,” she says, happy to see me return, and I said, “Yea, but I will have to go back soon.”

“You should call your parents and let them know,” she says.

“Ok, I will do that later.”

And then I procrastinated by going grocery shopping. Being back home, I need not scrimp and save when it came to shopping to feed myself. I did not have to forgo buying meat because it was a tad expensive, I did not have to buy the hardiest vegetables and produce so that they last in the fridge the longest. I could sense the temptation to just embrace this purchasing-power-freedom.

I made it home, and then I called my mother’s mobile phone, instead of my father’s, but a bad connection forced me to call the house’s landline instead.

“Mom, I’m back.”

“That’s great. When did you return?”

“Earlier this morning,” I lied; in the dream I returned last night. “I’m at grandma’s now.”

“Ok, will you come over for dinner later tonight?”

“Yea, sure.”

“How were things in the States? How was the flight?”

“Er, we’ll talk more when I go over. See ya later.”

“Alright.”

I could sense that my father was there in that room when I was talking, and it was an uneasy feeling.

The dream ended, I never got to go over to meet my parents for dinner. Maybe I didn’t want to.