Voices

Woke up this morning, disappointed, even depressed. Slept a very long time, and had nothing, not even fragments. Blank. Was getting dressed as something hit me. First just the name, the Dreaming Man. Then all the emotion. And this is how the dream begins: - I am in my shabby, small, dark apartment. Obsessing about lucid dreams. Reading books about them, researching. Then I pick up spit-image of a real life Notebook manual. Written there are not PC instructions but a wiki of dreaming, all possible subjects and induction techniques, listed neatly with corresponding explanations. I am overriden with joy and surprise as I go over the pages. Soon I find mention of a recipe for what seems to be a substance that makes you dream (or a dream substance that makes you lucid, not sure). It caught my attention. I had to try this. My recall gets hazy at how exactly everything happened, but from that manual I learn of another such dreamer as myself who has done it before, and who knows how to make it. The name was The Dreaming Man. I arrive at a far away place where this person was supposed to be. At the endge of grim downtown, among large apartment blocks there was an unnatural opening. There stood several colored tents, shacks, an icecream freezer up front. Seemed like a circus of sorts. I followed a dirt/sand trail from the street concrete that led up to the ice-cream vendor. There was a beautiful velvet tent to the right with red and yellow stripes. So I bought some ice-cream and asked about the dreaming man ( a side-note in real life DJ:"Think the vendor was not very friendly") . Found the person that I was looking for to the left, near something like a bar. She was a beautiful, tall woman covered in blue bodypaint with brown ornamets, long hair. But she looked tired, very uneasy. I asked her if she was dreaming every night. She told me that she did, with a nervous voice. Then I asked her if she had lucid dreams too, and she said yes, that she had about 900 recorded dreams. Then I asked about the recipe, if she knew how to make it, but I sensed fear or something. She did not want to make it. I told her that I am a dreamer too and showed her that dream instruction book. After lots of hazy arguments I conviced her to help me and she agreed to travel with me to my apartment (far away). Eventually we were sitting in that room again, I remember weighting several ingredients in a bowl as if making that recipe with her help. That dream substance was probably never made as the dream came to an end before we could finish. Now the most impactfull part of this long dream rant would be that somewhere between me convincing her and arriving at the apartment she told me a story. A story that I got to re-live, to be there as did she. It was a grey cellar room, I was sitting at a table. In front of me, on the other side of the table, sat a chubby man in his 50's, hawaii shirt, sweaty forehead, little hair, glasses, with a notebook and pen. I, the Dreaming Man, was desperately trying to explain something over and over again. Felt tired, scared, lost, confused, sad, lonely. The man sat there calm and emotionless as he shook his head in disbelief. The next thing I saw was the Dreaming Man hanging by chains on a wall in a dark cellar corridor, dirty and trashed, in a line with countless others, constantly being electrocuted by cables at their feet. She told me in her tormented but loving voice, that it continued until they either got "better" and forgot about it, or died and were diposed of.