A couple of Dream Journals and stuff (My Departure From Albion; A Piece Displaced)

anarchist's picture

I had a dream a few nights ago about wandering the world with my sister in search of a home. Apparently our home was destroyed or otherwise lost, and we were alone traversing a deteriorating world of poverty and decaying infrastructure.

We came upon (or were led to, I can't remember) a ruined area where the people were hiding behind the curtains of their empty apartments. The building to which we went was on a road in a small city, across from a deserted field of concrete. We passed through a partially concealed entrance at the foot of a building.

The other side of the door revealed an entirely different world. It was a vast underground library that was being used as a residential area by a small collection of locals. The volume of the complex was stretched vertically, the small, slightly cramped rooms connected by staircases spiralling rigidly, creating a deep column of landings that expanded opposite to one another. The interior was ornately carved and well preserved, completely contrasting the state of the outside world.

Every wall, even along the stairs, was filled with books, which appeared to be hundreds of years old. The one condition under which we were allowed to stay was that we clean the books kept in the shelves. Strangely, we were scrubbing them with water and rags, which seemed to cause no damage to them at all. I was tasked with cleaning a very wide item which appeared to be a medieval atlas. My sister was a level down, and I visited her periodically.

As I was cleaning I thought of the outside. I can't remember anything specific, but images of plants and overgrown paths, farm fields in succession, and aged buildings came to mind. The world was lonely and much older than anyone who inhabited it, as if every human had locked themselves indoors and abandoned every motive they had to continue constructing their civilization.

Library dreams are always my favorites.


The dream I had the night after is too blurry to write about, but I remember that it involved Germany, Nick Drake, and sausages. I have short memories of returning to the Eifel after the many years I've been separated from it, and rediscovering everything that built my happiness and the foundation of my sensory existence. It's a journey that I desperately hope to take one day, but unfortunately I don't see it happening in the near future. This dream taunted me, and isn't as pleasant to think about as the previous one. Maybe that's why I don't remember it.

In other news, the elusive shimmering hare of my dreams has unexpectedly communicated with me, less than a week before our approaching reanimation. I'm not sure what happened, but he was apparently having a more exciting and busy summer than I. Laziness has separated me from social manipulations and interventions in the path of perception.