This morning I woke up from a vividly beautiful dream again. I always dream in color and sometimes even with my sense of touch that even I can’t quite explain how.
In the dream, I came to London with three of my old college buddies. We visited the Big Ben and found this sepia toned book shop that sells old books, posters, collectibles, and whatnot. We were just looking around, finding goodies we can take home and just being tourists. I was so happy, I can feel it in my bones while I was asleep, because (a) I am in freaking London and (b) I am being surrounded with books and posters of my favorite films and bands. I thought maybe that was what heaven must look like. After which we went outside and I soaked my face in the greying sky – the sun was setting, the city lights were being turned on, and the cars and bicycles kept passing by me. It was happening so fast, it’s almost like a blur. But I can feel it, the cold wind blowing on my face and messing my hair. I remember feeling it. And then we tried to catch the remaining sun. We ran and embarked (from what I can recall) a hot air balloon. A red one. Or was it fuchsia? I’m not entirely sure now. We flew higher and higher, just four giddy young fresh graduates having the time of their life. I remember laughing a lot. Then panic. Nothing intense, just a brief sensation that something isn’t right. Then black.
And I guess I woke up moments after that.
I don’t know why London or why those people or why a hot air balloon. But if you know me well enough, it wouldn’t be a secret that I have been wanting to visit there since I was 11. And that I’ve never tried riding a hot air balloon ever (I always wanted to but the parents kept reminding me it’s dangerous, so I never got around it). And that those are three of my “closest” friends back in college. And, well, I’m not one to decipher my own dreams because trust me, I’ve had weirder ones. But isn’t it beautiful every time these subconsciously imagined memories let us travel and show us never-before-seen moments from life? I used to obsess over them, my dreams, trying to understand the symbols and subliminal messages they might bring. Then I grew up, got busy, and stopped overthinking about it.
I guess Paulo Coelho’s right, I don’t need to explain my dreams, not even to myself. We are being surrounded with mysteries we can’t fully understand in life anyway. One thing’s for sure though: They’re mine. My brain somehow manifested them and it’s burned in there somewhere and no one can take it all away now. It’s just that.. I can’t help but think how often my dreams are becoming so much better than my own reality. x