What a sadness to leave a dream, especially one that comes to haunt the universe of our unconsciousness from time to time. I am one of those who glide, who fly away. I don’t have wings in my dreams, I never even go very high. These are not big-screen adventures. Despite the different sets and characters, the dream follows more or less the same scenario, I normally walk until the feet leave the ground, by the gradual absence of gravity, trying to make the pleasure last.
During these dreams, I am usually surrounded by people who are not surprised to see me hovering just above their heads. Just yesterday, I was among my co-workers who had gathered in a large room to meet… transgender people. I was having fun seeing J. talking seriously with a man/woman, both of them sitting in a corner like they were telling each other secrets.
The dreamlike flight is not exceptional and I would be bored if I could extrapolate some universal meaning from my modest brain chemistry. Mythologist Campbell said he never wanted to tell his dreams to others because what we find wonderful will invariably be of little interest to others.
This dream does not haunt me, but I can say that the algorithm behind it seems to be changing. Although I can’t be sure—how can we base truths on our nocturnal whims?—I have the impression that I always manage to rise a little higher, that my flight lasts longer, that my lungs become balloons.
Nothing certain, I repeat, but this dream rejoins the awakened state of mind that is readily called meditation. When I let my eyes glide over things, over people, I feel like I’m dreaming, like I’m nothing and everything. I often stop listening to a conversation and linger on a person’s neckline, observe the blinking of his or her eyes, or spy on the apparent immobility of objects that are degrading.
Glide, fly over, bypass, walk away from the ground of everyday life. Breaking the rules of the ordinary. What I would like to be always only this ephemeral feeling of fullness!