You’re not back yet. The dream still grips your mind like a drug, its winds blow over your body. Behind closed eyes the world is colourful. It’s as if at the bottom of an ocean an oyster showed a pearl so shining, its light reaches to the surface and up into the sky, making the clouds dance an act of a play. And it’s but one small weft thread woven into the tapestry. You see the whole picture with all its moving parts, inescapable, its features and moods your prison and liberty. Still, it doesn’t last long and you quickly jump into one such moving part, shrinking and falling into something mysterious.

You’re flying underwater. The liquid is filled with concern but also with a sense of peace. There’s no need to be afraid of suffocating because you can breathe, and you can see, even though you’re too deep for the sun to reach you. The waters bring you to a cave which has been carved by sea people.

You can’t see. The cave isn’t dark but your vision is patchy, as if you were going blind. A current takes you down a deep hole. You swim with the local fauna, transparent fish with clouds instead of organs inside of them. The scene changes into images of the eyes of a whale, clouded then clear, as it cries out welcoming you, telling you can see again. The next moment you’re swimming between two pillars, ancient structures of the sea people, corroded by the water. You feel like you entered a place only you could have found, a place your subconscious secretly longed to visit.

You see a face. A face so familiar, yet you can’t remember from where, and it’s coming towards you with a smile looking into your eyes. A sincere smile. The two of you swim towards a building. Inside, you hear the voice of the smile, telling secrets about the present and the future, whispering it to your very core, and you feel comfortable. You can trust the voice which caresses you, something you need a lot, and you trust it with all your being. You open yourself and see a pearl in your chest. You escape with the light that’s coming out of it and fly towards the surface, up into the sky, to dance with the clouds.

Wake up. Feel your breath again. It’s still warm under your blanket. Still dark behind closed eyes. The comfort of your pillow has yet to stop feeding you the dream you’d been having. Then the cold air of your waking life touches your face. You change position, tuck yourself up in the warm, and recall the dreamscape. You’re dancing with the clouds, you’re hearing the voice, but you can’t remember the face. It must be cold outside. You probably left your window open. You’re looking for the whale but see only the empty water cave. The fish don’t lead you to secret places, and you can’t fly anymore. The weight of your body pulls you into the bed. You miss the dream.

Open your eyes. A postcard of your dream hangs from the ceiling.