Déjà Vu
There were mountains.
Tall mountains that looked menacingly black from miles away, on a long straight road that winds at its foothills. These mountains had a life of their own, a separate consciousness that somehow makes one feel that they’re living on a much lower plane of thought. They ceaselessly whispered to him in the night, egging him on, reaching the furthest corners of his mind with a smile so boundlessly evil and a hand so subtly outstretched, hypnotizing him, calling... calling him home.
He resisted, day in and day out, till one day his will broke and he reached out and accepted the hand of support that pulled him to his doom. Three motorcycles, engines screaming, did journey to their doom.
To this day, he does not remember the events that transpired or how the mountains murdered his friends. But remembered knowing he had to escape. And he did.
Spirits chased him, in the guise of humans carrying weapons. They surrounded every route of escape with military precision, focusing intense flashlights on their prey and howling like a pack of wolves so near their food. He was running, on foot, gasping, bleeding, and pulling thorns out of his bloody soles, covering imprinted stains of blood with loose sand from a bag. Bloodstains were a giveaway, he could be followed easily. His heart thumping, adrenaline fuelling his very existence he crawled into a narrow crevice where he hoped he would not be found.
The sound of spirits in the guise of men-with-weapons was drawing near. And the evil voice, oh so strong it was, fluidly shifting suddenly and constantly between demented cackles and screams, orders to return to captivity... and doom. At that point he thought, if he ever escaped the clutches of this damned place, he would christen the tallest peak of his nightmares, Mount Doom. He vaguely remembered a mountain with the same name in an epic novel, from which was fashioned a ring of power. He gazed at his palm, overjoyed that he had no ring until his reverie was shattered by voices circling in.
And the last thing he remembered was a blinding white light through the opening of the crevice, illuminating his face to an ethereal voice that commanded - “Kill him.”--some would say it was the white light at the end of the tunnel, symbolic of consciousness after death--before he woke up in a hospital bed surrounded by his two friends who insisted that they had rescued him after he crashed, and that the people with guns were a hoax, a delirium, an illusion that his mind did create.
---
Today, I dreamt of the same spot where I was so brutally hunted in my dream of over two years ago.
I told myself, rather, thought to myself or whatever mode one uses to communicate to ones’ own flow of thoughts in dream state - “I have been here before, in my dreams, perhaps an eternity or dream-lives ago.”
---
I was surrounded by loved ones when wheels revved past the spot that I sheltered in over two years ago, and a whizzing sense of dark familiarity crept in. Today, there were clusters of eerie broken houses in which were glimpsed people, huddled in terror on a bright sunny day-- victims of tyranny of the mountain, I later found, as the dream rendered itself unto a mosaic of sheer terror.
I vividly remember some parts of the dream. There were friends old and new, a sense of contentment and happiness flowing golden, so surreal yet so tangible that you could almost touch it. We were young, happy-go-lucky, we had aspirations and oh yes, we had dreams. Yet, there seemed to be no observable effect of any evil surrounding us. Days passed by with images mirroring lyrical words of “High Hopes” by Pink Floyd.
An eternity may have passed in familiarizing myself to these new moments when the mountains so dormant woke up, seething at the presence of someone familiar, someone from the past, someone who... got away. A haze of memories and loads of fear later, I was drowning, right near the crevice at the foothills of the black mountains I once sheltered in. Floods, torrential rains, a black night, fright, and wishing for this to end, to soak in sunlight. Doom drew itself near, and as I felt my life slowly escaping clutches of my fragile mortality, I let go of the cold hands of my two friends who saved me in my previous dream.
And just before eternal darkness set in, I could've sworn I heard a feeble echo of the familiar cackle of Mount Doom. And I knew then, I had witnessed the death of my dreams.
Tall mountains that looked menacingly black from miles away, on a long straight road that winds at its foothills. These mountains had a life of their own, a separate consciousness that somehow makes one feel that they’re living on a much lower plane of thought. They ceaselessly whispered to him in the night, egging him on, reaching the furthest corners of his mind with a smile so boundlessly evil and a hand so subtly outstretched, hypnotizing him, calling... calling him home.
He resisted, day in and day out, till one day his will broke and he reached out and accepted the hand of support that pulled him to his doom. Three motorcycles, engines screaming, did journey to their doom.
To this day, he does not remember the events that transpired or how the mountains murdered his friends. But remembered knowing he had to escape. And he did.
Spirits chased him, in the guise of humans carrying weapons. They surrounded every route of escape with military precision, focusing intense flashlights on their prey and howling like a pack of wolves so near their food. He was running, on foot, gasping, bleeding, and pulling thorns out of his bloody soles, covering imprinted stains of blood with loose sand from a bag. Bloodstains were a giveaway, he could be followed easily. His heart thumping, adrenaline fuelling his very existence he crawled into a narrow crevice where he hoped he would not be found.
The sound of spirits in the guise of men-with-weapons was drawing near. And the evil voice, oh so strong it was, fluidly shifting suddenly and constantly between demented cackles and screams, orders to return to captivity... and doom. At that point he thought, if he ever escaped the clutches of this damned place, he would christen the tallest peak of his nightmares, Mount Doom. He vaguely remembered a mountain with the same name in an epic novel, from which was fashioned a ring of power. He gazed at his palm, overjoyed that he had no ring until his reverie was shattered by voices circling in.
And the last thing he remembered was a blinding white light through the opening of the crevice, illuminating his face to an ethereal voice that commanded - “Kill him.”--some would say it was the white light at the end of the tunnel, symbolic of consciousness after death--before he woke up in a hospital bed surrounded by his two friends who insisted that they had rescued him after he crashed, and that the people with guns were a hoax, a delirium, an illusion that his mind did create.
---
Today, I dreamt of the same spot where I was so brutally hunted in my dream of over two years ago.
I told myself, rather, thought to myself or whatever mode one uses to communicate to ones’ own flow of thoughts in dream state - “I have been here before, in my dreams, perhaps an eternity or dream-lives ago.”
---
I was surrounded by loved ones when wheels revved past the spot that I sheltered in over two years ago, and a whizzing sense of dark familiarity crept in. Today, there were clusters of eerie broken houses in which were glimpsed people, huddled in terror on a bright sunny day-- victims of tyranny of the mountain, I later found, as the dream rendered itself unto a mosaic of sheer terror.
I vividly remember some parts of the dream. There were friends old and new, a sense of contentment and happiness flowing golden, so surreal yet so tangible that you could almost touch it. We were young, happy-go-lucky, we had aspirations and oh yes, we had dreams. Yet, there seemed to be no observable effect of any evil surrounding us. Days passed by with images mirroring lyrical words of “High Hopes” by Pink Floyd.
An eternity may have passed in familiarizing myself to these new moments when the mountains so dormant woke up, seething at the presence of someone familiar, someone from the past, someone who... got away. A haze of memories and loads of fear later, I was drowning, right near the crevice at the foothills of the black mountains I once sheltered in. Floods, torrential rains, a black night, fright, and wishing for this to end, to soak in sunlight. Doom drew itself near, and as I felt my life slowly escaping clutches of my fragile mortality, I let go of the cold hands of my two friends who saved me in my previous dream.
And just before eternal darkness set in, I could've sworn I heard a feeble echo of the familiar cackle of Mount Doom. And I knew then, I had witnessed the death of my dreams.
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