@everephebe, wow, your dreams are as detailed and coordinated as many of mine, apparently.
Oh damn, the Rebecca Black thread actually reminded me of another freaky narrated dream I had.
The dream was like a movie in that I wasn’t actually present in the events, but watching them unfold from certain “camera angles.”
The “camera” panned across an open field and began to focus on an abandoned baseball diamond as dark clouds formed overhead. A lone black man who was very old and had a very weathered face sat on the bleachers staring off into space. As the camera slowly focused and zoomed in on the black man’s face, an unseen narrator began to speak:
“Everyone can feel it, but most can’t even describe it…
but for some, it’s like they are staring into the
universe…
…And the universe is staring right back
into them.”
With that, it began to rain. The camera flashed to raindrops hitting the pavement. Each splash of rain was a little ghostly looking face and the pavement was made out of staring eyes.
Another dream I remember that was very bizarre… I usually remember every detail of my dreams. This one, like the one about the baseball diamond, had a sort of narration (in the form of a song) in it that I was able to jot down upon waking. Freaking sweet. Forgive the weird formatting, I copied and pasted it from one of my notes on facebook.
I dreamed that I was climbing a massive red clay mountain that was covered in tall pines. At the very top of the mountain was
a large box filled with newspapers that a middle-aged man was sifting through. He read stories from the newspapers about
another man who was supposed to be a sort of spiritual guru who was famous for his good works and his philosophy (he never
said the man’s name). After a while, an ancient Asian man came stumbling out of the woods crying. He had to be at least 150 years old as he
was withered and had a long white beard and big, bushy white eyebrows. I knew instantly that he was the man from the newspapers.
He stood before the middle-aged man and I, still with tears in his eyes. The middle-aged man pulled a violin out of a case
and started to play a slow, yet upbeat song. With that, the Ancient Man began to sing:
In God’s perfect garden
It doesn’t matter if you die young
My age is just a shield against
the Devil’s rusted plow
A callous hand to show you
If you die old like me
Then be like the mountain
Not like the bombs
Or waves
And let them climb and reach
Upon you
And you will cradle them
In your valleys
While he sang, I climbed to the very peak of the mountain where the soil was loose and red. I stood on the very top
and watched the sun rise over a huge and expansive evergreen and pine forest, casting a brilliant orange glow
across the treetops while the Ancient Man’s song echoed over them.
I slid down back to where the men were, and the middle aged man had snuggled up with his violin and gone to sleep.
The Ancient Man was lying as well, dead, on a mat made from the newspapers about him. His lips still moved to the
tune of the song, and I sang it myself in my head.
I wrapped him up the newspapers, and wrote his song on the front of his makeshift funeral wrappings, and I carried him
to a cave and laid him down on a pile of rocks. I stepped back out into the sun….
….and then I woke up.
Composing members:
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