Dreams have a funny way of entering into my waking life and throwing all my memories of my youth into the shadows of doubt. So often, I realize that what I thought was a real memory was just a dream. I hardly know what to think anymore. How many of my memories are real, or does it really matter? When I’m dreaming, I’m sure I’m awake. How do I know that my waking life isn’t really the dream and my memories of dreams aren’t really just twisted memories of reality seeping into my dream consciousness? What about the dreams that we have within what we currently believe to be dreams?
I can’t answer these questions because I just don’t know. I don’t have enough confidence in my own perceptions of reality to say anything for sure. I am fairly certain about my own existence. Beyond that, I can only rely on logic and my own feelings. Who’s to say that in the end, feelings might not be even more reliable than a potentially twisted sense of logic? While I am dreaming, everything seems logical, but then I wake up and discover that what seemed completely logical makes absolutely no sense at all. What if I were to someday wake up from this current reality and see that everything that seems logical now, is actually completely nonsensical? Sometimes, I think I can see it now – like being in a dream and suddenly realizing that none of it is real and nothing makes sense. Does your life make sense? Mine certainly doesn’t.
Is my audience real? Who am I writing this book for anyway? If this is a dream, then are all the people I see on the streets just creations of my own subconscious? Maybe, all of you do exist and we are all dreaming the same dream together from slightly different perspectives. Perhaps, there is a subconscious substitute for you when you slip back into reality. When you start to dream again, you take the place of your substitute and receive all of the memories without ever realizing that you weren’t here for awhile. Maybe, none of this makes sense to you now – I’d be surprised if it did. My experience with dreams hasn’t been exactly what you would call normal.
Talking to other people about their dreams has made me realize that I am alone in this world. I have never met anyone that dreams like I do. Or maybe, as dreams may be nested within dreams, I just see reality from a slightly different plane. Perhaps we all come to where I am from time to time, but you have all forgotten. I have not. Let me share with you some of the memories of my life. I can’t say which of my memories, if any of them are real, but I will tell it as I remember it. Don’t be too quick to judge which memories are real and which are false either. I tell you, it is not as simple as it might seem.
I’m not sure where my story really begins. Some people believe in reincarnation. Other people believe in a type of premortal existence. Maybe, they’re both the same thing. It could be that some of my memories actually stem from a time prior to my birth into this current reality. It doesn’t seem likely to me that all levels of my personal reality suddenly sprung into existence at one point in time. If this is a dream, then my body as I see it may not be real and birth in that case is just a small part of a larger picture that spans both before and after that event.
However, for the sake of convention, I was delivered into this world on the 21st of March, 1978. My memories don’t have dates attached to them, so I can only assume that most of them occur after this date.
I have seen the world from the eyes of a bird. I don’t know what kind of bird I was since I wasn’t too interested in looking in a mirror at the time. I flew over a large lake, but if there were a reflection to be seen, I certainly didn’t care to look for it. My only concern was getting from one place to another. I passed over the lake and then circled around to find an upwards current of air to help me pass over the hills ahead of me. Covered in pine trees with occasional glimpses of sparse undergrowth, I flew up and over the hills. I kept my eye on the ground, ready to take advantage of any opportunity to eat. I wasn’t particularly hungry, but it was my habit to be always watchful and ready. Not much time passed before I saw something shiny between the trees reflecting in the afternoon sun. I don’t remember why, but I felt compelled to fly down and see what this radiant object was. I swooped down and landed beside the object, staring at it with one eye. Suddenly, my other eye saw a boy approach. Before I could leap from the ground, I heard him call out a name, “Trickle, my friend.” Instantly, I felt frozen to the spot. I knew this boy. Feelings of warmth and devotion to this human flooded into my heart. This was the end of the memory. Throughout my childhood, I believed Trickle to be an imaginary friend, yet I remember being him. This memory is as clear and vivid to me as any other that I have from my childhood. Only the fact that it doesn’t seem logical leads me to reject this as a true memory, but if I am dreaming now, then maybe this memory is reality and I really was or am a bird.
I know what it feels like to fly. My memories of flying are so vivid to me that a few times I have wanted to try it in this reality, but the logic of this place causes me to doubt my ability. The memory is as clear as any other though.