The lone ghost of the early morning - a dream

In the early morning, at 7:20, the alarm clock is like a ghost that wrings people out of the dream, and the process of disengagement from the dream is pulled into a deformed corridor of time and space, returning to reality like a hangover.

And the residual dream always comes to mind every morning when getting dressed and washing, accompanied by some revelations related to real life, such as the message that should be replied to today, the work that should be handled, the housework that should be sorted out, the food that should be bought at the market... When you wash, these originally scheduled messages will surface and float in the bath.

Then the dreams that remained from last night were like the sneaky appearances of ephemera hiding behind every revelation underwater: fragments of death that occurred in the thick darkness, exam papers that flowed endlessly in the sunset of the past, a man who could not see his face, a broken scene with the cold of the deep winter dawn... The brain is like a huge machine that bursts into action, and in the chaotic moment when it has not yet been able to distinguish between reality and dreams, the dreams are like ephemeral flowers separated from time and space.

Fully awake, it is a sight to behold.

Therefore, the joy of life sometimes exists in exploring those mysterious adventures in the fog.

There was a grotesque dream about darkness, about escape.

The night of the starless moon, a towering mountain, stretching from the top of the mountain to the foot of the mountain, dilapidated buildings, no doors and windows, large clumps of miscanthus protruding from the hollow, huge ruins, lost memories and history, lurking wild ghosts and homeless tramps.

A woman, with three children, spent the night in a house with a half-roofed roof, they carefully sealed the broken windows with cowhide felt, lit a kerosene lamp, and the woman whispered storybooks to the children, carefully, they seemed reluctant to reveal a little light and sound, and there were jackdaws wailing in the air.

Suddenly, the noise of the wind increased, the miscanthus danced wildly around, without warning, the lights went out, the darkness poured down, the screams of the children broke through the silence of this time and space like a bolt of lightning, I leaned in mid-air and was grabbed and thrown into the woman's body, my heart contracted suddenly, and I already knew in my dream that I was in danger.

Souls cry out to run! Run! Get out of here! Everything has the potential to kill you!

But I was pinned to the spot, and seemed to be distracted from the tenderness of the night and the strange feeling of the gently shaking of the ruins. Perhaps, shaking is just an imagination in a dream, not escaping only because you know that you have been locked in, you can't escape, but instead settle down, to feel the trembling of your soul when the crisis fills every strand of air around you.

When I woke up, I thought that the reason why I was scared and fascinated by that feeling was because it was close to the essence of life. Man, imprisoned in an entertaining and confused time and space, is dying of old age in a time and space of amusement and confusion, but he cannot forbid the soul to return to the world to which it belongs to feel the trembling.

No matter what techniques I use in my dreams to keep myself alive, and in reality I live a radiant life on every marked day, there is a feeling that never dies, as if this life is just a reflection.

I have nowhere to run.