Dream Journal Ultimate
Date: 6/25/2020
By ItsABlackCat
This dream skipped around from perspective to perspective. First off, the dream started off with me in my own perspective; only i was a peasant in a medieval-ages style village. The village was centered around a large, stone brick castle, which— in the dream— was only slightly old and worn. Most of the bricks were intact and not crumbling like you’d expect most castles to look like today. The castle was huge, and didn’t look like your typical castle, with a rectangular center and four pillars around it. It started off with a large block at the front of the castle, and two large towers on either side of the front, on top of which sat guards and big bonfires used to warn farther-off guards of battles and stuff. That front building connected to a much larger rectangular building, only a few feet taller but much MUCH wider, which extended slightly more to the left than the right. There was a large cylindrical tower to the far right side where the corner of the first building touched the front of the second, almost rounding off that 90° cut. It was the tallest tower, and at the top was a pointy triangular kind of roof which sat suspended a few feet over top of a glass dome roof. The pointy pyramid roof would open up and fall down to the sides of the tower when a lever was activated, turning the tower’s roof into an observatory. Then, to the left, the largest building connected to several others. One was a small, rectangle building near the back, which rose several hundred feet above the others, but was much smaller in length and width. At the top of this one was the ridged edges you see atop most classic castles, upon which several guards could sit on watch. On the farthest left was a building which looked like a square that had been overlapped across the corner of the rectangle; the shape wrapped around the corner of the larger building at the front, like this (from a bird’s eye view): |***| |_[***** ] [_____] (The *’s are also just regular walls, because I couldn’t find anything else to connect them). There were a few buildings branching off from the left of the building, and the castle itself always followed a sort of pattern; the tallest buildings were closer to the center of the castle, while the shorter ones were— on average— branching off from those, in order of height. It was like they were meant for a midget giant (or perhaps a supernaturally athletic human) to leap down from building to building like stairs, until they reached the only-slightly-dead grass surrounding the edges of the castle. In this dream, my peasant self had grouped up with a few other people. They’re mostly kids but a few are adults, and our group as a whole is just over six people or so. We’re grouping up to investigate something that’s been causing problems in the city. The group and I are pretty diverse. Myself, along with like two other kids, are peasants; two of us (a boy a few years younger than me, and I) are orphans as well; the adult is as close to middle class as you could’ve come in the time period this dream is taking place, coming from a rich family but being disowned after an accident (I forget what exactly but it wasn’t entirely his fault) and left off with more money than a peasant, but not nearly enough to be rich; there are a few people who are servants, doing well enough off; and one is a trader from a distant land, who I suspect is somewhat rich based on his outfit, which is basically Aladdin’s outfit after becoming a prince. Anyways, the group and I had come together after an incident which I had a flashback to later in the dream. However, to make it all less confusing, I’ll just tell the story in chronological order (based on what I remember) as of when it all happened, not when I dreamed it. So, I had been on a bus (it was literally a bus drawn by horses) with a few other people. We were all being drafted into the military, which at this point wasn’t the same as the military is today. In the dream we had all been drafted for different reasons (basically what would happen is that, every year, these important people in the village were tasked with the job of finding different people to draft; nobody knew who they were because they disguised themselves, but there was a person looking for intelligence — scientist material— one for leadership— commander material — one for strength, obviously for soldiers; so on and so forth), and each bus was separated as such. I was on the bus dedicated to people drafted for their intelligence / to be scientists. I was glad for this but also worried, because on one hand it’d mean that I’d have free reign to experiment, do science stuff, etc. without having to steal anything or buy anything, and it’d also mean that I wouldn’t have a high chance of being killed as opposed to soldiers. But it also meant that I might be tasked with creating something which would then be the cause of death for hundreds if not thousands of people, like a bomb or something. I was sitting at the back of this bus worrying about everything, and my arm was leaning out the side. Instead of Windows the bus had a whole strip taken from the side in their place, separated much more sparsely by smaller sections of metal. The wind whipped at my hair. The bus was so crowded; I was glad to have a window seat, because people had been stuffed into every inch of spare space there was. There are busses driving ahead and behind of our bus, and I’m looking back at the bus behind us when I spot something. Two men by the side of the dirt road, near a building so big and intricate I’m assuming it’s a chapel, one of them with a strangely familiar case. The case has some symbol on it that I recognize to be the symbol of some sort of gang or cult or something. The point is I know somethings up. We’re in ‘traffic,’ I think the busses ahead of us were being searched or whatever, so the bus was just inching by these men, I had time to really digest the situation. Immediately I leap up and, using the hand holds, make my way towards the front of the bus monkey-bar style. Nobody seems adamant to stop me, not even when I reach the top of the bus— it’s like a balcony, everyone up top is sitting down but there’s no seats, and there are no walls either, just a little railing maybe a few inches tall. I move across the top of the bus and a guard standing outside of it looks up at me boredly. I can see the two men more clearly now and I can tell they’re definitely up to something. A few busses down I see an older man standing up, looking right at the men. Our eyes lock when he feels me staring and I point at the men. Then the man I saw starts shouting something. I, too, start shouting about the two men and their case. Based on what I can see I know, somehow, that they have a bomb, and are planning to use it on the busses. Probably on the soldiers; to try and get rid of the new recruits in an attack on the military. I see the men look up, and one of them pulls out a second, smaller case. They each start running at a different bus, opening the case as they do so. In a feat of athleticism I know is impossible for me IRL, I leap from the roof of the bus, using the railing to swing myself to the ground, and run at the man closest to me. I hear shouting and panic arise from behind us, and then a loud THWAP. But no explosion follows, so I figure nothing bad has happened, yet. The man takes something out of the case. It’s a strange, definitely old fashioned metal bottle, gold by the looks of it, with a little piece of fabric sticking out the top like a Molotov. I realize two things; one, this could end very badly for me if I fail; and two, this was a good thing, because if I caught the Molotov without jerking the contents too much, there was a chance I could catch the bomb without letting anything happen— to myself OR to others. I remember thinking at this point, in the dream, about something my therapist told me; about how selflessness can become carelessness if you give too much of yourself away for others. Because I remember thinking after that, am I giving too much? My life for theirs— is this carelessness, or selflessness— if I fail, was this all my fault? Would the blame shift to me? Luckily, I reach the man before he even throws it, and football tackle him, grabbing the Molotov thing from him. It’s pretty brutal considering I’m only like 90 lbs at my heaviest, literally it’s just some frail, 16 year old girl charging down this hunk of a guy and literally throwing her ENTIRE weight at him, feet leaving the ground and everything, so that he was literally thrown backwards. But I’m the dream, surprisingly, I don’t get hurt at all, despite the impact I logistically know my shoulder would have made. I get up with the bomb and run over to a guard, handing it to him gingerly. Everyone’s left the busses and chaos is slowly rising as the new recruits demand for information: was this a test? Were they actually being executed? Was that an attack? Would they be safe? Did the military know this would happen? In the chaos I work my way towards the edge of the crowd, off of the dirt road. The man who helped me take down the two bombers is also outside of the road, bent over to examine one of the men’s bodies. I walk over to him and he says something like, nice eyes, kid, and I say thanks, you too. And then I inspect the body with him and, because I’m a fucking nerd or some shit IDK, I immediately spot part of a tattoo on the bomber’s wrist. I pull his sleeve down and the man— I’m gonna call him Jerry for memory recollection purposes— and Jerry asks me what do I think. I tell him that I also recognize the symbol on his wrist. The one on his case was that of a cult— Jerry seems to know this, and I don’t ask any questions as to how. I tell him that the symbol on his wrist says/means something like, “The snake bites it’s own tail, for the circle of life to go on.” Jerry seems perturbed by this and asks how I know. I shrug and say I spend a lot of time sneaking into the colleges and libraries and speed-reading literally everything. Then I ask him which bus he came from and he said, the one for newly recruited assassins / spies. Apparently he knew how to keep his mouth shut, AND how to get where he wanted, quietly. The story went on and, to make it short, a few other people came from the crowd. Two kids who had been recruited as soldiers, one who had been recruited as a commander, all of them came to see what we were doing or to talk. The soldier kids thanked us for taking initiative and saving them when the actual soldiers wouldn’t; I tell them that it’s fine, and that sometimes, it’s not the military that needs to solve things. The commander kid tells me that she thinks this all has to be part of something bigger, and that the military has to know something about it, right? Or are they clueless? she asks. I look at the soldiers, think for a bit, and finally respond— the soldiers definitely knew about this ahead of time, and something fishy was definitely going on. I pointed out a few suspicious things I’d noticed: firstly, when Jerry and I started shouting warnings about the men, the soldiers didn’t do anything; most of them looked annoyed or even worried. A few tried to quiet down the busses when other people noticed our shouting and got anxious. And afterwards, they didn’t seem at all surprised or worried. They were calm, telling people they didn’t know anything and that it was all fine. Worst of all, the commander only seemed annoyed. Secondly, nobody sent any messages to the commanders or the rest of the military. Usually when something like this happens, they’d send a messenger boy or bird to go warn the military and make them aware of what just happened. After all, it seemed to be a direct attack to the military itself. But no messages were sent. The soldiers and commander stood in place like they’d been glued there, and said that the military would arrive soon, it would all be fine. Which brought the question, how would the rest of the military know to come if no messages had been sent to alert them? Jerry agreed with me on that point and said that there was a likelihood that something much more sinister was going on. Commander kid, who I’m nicknaming CK, added that this probably wouldn’t be the last attack by the military itself— or the last incident in any case. I nodded vigorously. At this point I was partially lucid dreaming. I don’t know how, but I’d become aware that I was dreaming, just like that, somewhere in this part of the dream. It wasn’t enough to completely allow me to have full control over everything that happened. Or maybe I just didn’t want to change the dream. Whatever the case, for the rest of the dream, this same story continued as usual, except for the fact that my thinking process was heightened / I was more aware of everything, and thought much more like my usual self (AKA I had anxiety. Thanks lucid dreaming). The next part in the dream (or should I say, the next part of the story in my dream) was where the soldier kids (I’m calling them Soldiers), CK, Jerry and I had all grouped up. This was the group I described at the beginning of the dream. We had snuck off and were going to investigate the castle. We all used various disguises— the kids who’d been servants, AKA the Soldiers I think, simply assigned themselves roles as servants in the castle; I straight up broke in through a back window/door place; the man got in by pretending he was a messenger boy there for one of the important people; et cetera. In order to break in I have to sneak past this beast, which is like a mix between a pig and a wolf/rabid dog. But I don’t actually have to do much because the poor thing is just abused all the time, I offer it food and it eats it like it’s starving (which it probably is). I remember feeling so bad for it— the thing wasn’t a beast if you were a decent person. It was just a chained animal. I also remember thinking, in the dream, that I’d have to come back and free the thing once I did what I came to do. Long story short, I end up at the top of the tallest tower in the castle. It’s almost a junk room, like how an old attic looks, with a wooden floor but surprisingly high ceiling which lets in strange blots of light. There’s a few things I remember being amongst the junk: The first thing I remember is a spinning wheel like from The Sleeping Beauty. Almost exactly like that one. The second thing I remember is a bunch of tables; on one table, there are randomly assorted stacks of old-looking books, some thick and some just plain massive, and they looked like they weren’t definitely some magical shit. On another table were several glass vials and bottles filled with variously colored liquids and smokes. So basically potions. As I was investigating the books and such, I was careful not to leave footprints in the dust— there were a few places that were clean, like people commonly walked through, but there were also places where the dust gathered like snow. I could clearly tell where the people (person?) who came to this room always went to, and it was the things I remember investigating. A sudden noise started me as I was gingerly sifting through the pages of a huge untitled book. It seemed like gibberish but I knew it was a code, and I was pretty good at cracking codes usually; but I heard loud footsteps slamming outside of the door to the room, boots stomping heavily down the wooden stairs, and a snarl/whimper as the person presumably hit/kicked the beast. He was shouting loudly, I think orders maybe to a servant, either way I dove underneath a table and held my breath. Then, the man came in. I could only see the bottom half of him, he was wearing a long leather-like adventurer’s cloak, the kind which fasten at the neck and billow out like a cape; and below that, plain green and brown clothes. His pants were some sort of rough cloth, and his boots were black leather, rising to just above the middle of his shins. He walked over (I could see him across the room) to the spinning wheel, muttering and cursing. I couldn’t quite catch what he was saying, but I could tell he was irritated. Then, he came right over to the table I was hiding under, and stopped for a second. There was no tablecloth or anything to hide me, I remember thinking: there’s no way he won’t see me. He’s going to see me, I’m gonna be found. But before anything else happened my perspective changed yet again. This time, I was watching— as some sort of non-person / as if I were watching a movie— a man who was not really a man. The man was old, ragged, his head had random patches of thin gray hair sticking up everywhere, quite long. His beard was short, salt-and-peppered, and scraggly. He wore an outfit that seemed loosely thrown together. He was moving about a building which I think is his house, searching for something; he throws clothes and chalices and tools out of drawers and chests, sifting through loudly but apparently not finding what he wants. He curses under his breath until finally, he finds what he’s looking for. He finds it not a second too late. A soldier appears at the doorway to his house, although he doesn’t seem prepared to fight or anything, he’s just casual, if not surprised. The man holds up the thing he had been looking for— a shiny, dangerous looking knife. The soldier asks him to put it down but the man shakes his head. He gasps like he’s just run a marathon, and his face is sweaty enough to support it, too. His eyes dart around everywhere. They’re watery and bloodshot. He licks his lips, which are cracked, and in the dream I notice how dark the lines are under his eyes, and how his skin droops like that of someone much older. Of course I’m not really there, just watching this, but I remember noticing that. The man says something (in a breathy, stuttering, halting voice) like, “I know why you’re here, but my lives will give choice within, if none for which I choose them with,” something confusing and low-key crazy sounding, but it was almost exactly like that. The soldier seems just as confused as I was, and tells the man that he’s gonna have to hand over his money for taxes, or be taken to ‘trial’ and whipped forty times. The man repeats what he’d said, then adds something like, “I’m not gonna take any more pain. Forty lashes isn’t all I’ll get, you know they all hate me, I’m not putting myself through that. Have them kill me for it instead.” Of course, the soldier’s all like, “WTF, no, are you okay bro?” and in response the man says, “I am sorry, it must be fragile for you,” before lunging at the soldier. The soldier reacts quickly and the man chases him to a kitchen sort of area (it has a furnace and a table with chairs), and corners him. The soldier asks what he’s doing and tells the man that the penalty for attacking a soldier is death. The man seems sad but doesn’t say anything. Then, he throws the knife, and it lands deep in the soldier’s upper arm. The soldier cusses a bunch and shouts, and hooves can be heard beating outside the door, along with the shouts of other soldiers. The man says, so quietly that only I know he said it, something like: “over and over again, and my choices have even been limited to these; when will it end?” Then the perspective changes— only technically, it doesn’t. It’s the same as last time where I’m just watching, this time I’m watching a boy who reminds me of Five from Umbrella Academy. He seems pissed off and annoyed, and kind of sad. He has dark circles under his eyes, reminding me of a raccoon because his face is otherwise so pale. Then, it’s revealed— or more like, I realize— that the boy is actually the man from earlier. The boy moves about his new life, muttering under his breath the same stuff the man was muttering. I remember thinking, in the dream, something along the lines of: this man is going to be important in the story later. Then, in my mind, I see a new scenario. There’s a black man who looks a lot like Samuel Jackson, only medieval-ized, in the castle from earlier. He’s in a high-up room which is large and has lots of space. It’s all made of stone, and there are statues lining the walls, each one different from the last but just as important looking. Below each statue is a bowl. Some bowls are filled with liquids or gasses like from the potions earlier. Others seem empty. I somehow know that the black man is that same man, who is reincarnated into a different life every time he dies, keeping his memories and everything. The forever-reincarnated man is looking up at a statue. The man from way earlier, the one in the attic-like room who was a dickhead and kicked a dog and stuff, appears next to him. He has the same clothes and everything, and his face is square. He has long brown hair and stubble neatly even along his jaw. The men share a tension and I get the feeling they’re going to have some sort of fight. But then, unsurprisingly, the perspective changes AGAIN. This time, I am actually in the story, kind of. It’s from the perspective of this young man, maybe 18 or something, only I see from the eyes of the man. I AM the man, kind of. It’s hard to explain. Anyways, this man is sneaking through the slats of fences, passing through yards filled with rich snobs arguing over dumb shit poor people can’t afford. He reaches a yard which is mostly empty and sees a girl there. The girl is very pretty. She has brown hair down to her bellybutton (about), curly at the ends, and pale skin, which has the clearness of every Disney Princess ever. Her eyes are big and green and her smile is sweet. She’s wearing a simple dress, pale blue in color, which marks her as being rich, but not snobbishly so, kinda. She brightens when she sees me and I take her arm. Together we walk away from the buildings towards the gate which marks the entrance of the village. It’s wide open. As we walk, she holds my arm and rests her head on my shoulder. We reach the top of the hill (the hill right in front of the exit to the village) and in front of us is a beautiful field. The grass is green and wild, but not long. Thousands upon thousands of flowers grow wildly, almost all of them are red, orange, blue, or white flowers with yellow middles— I think a type of tulip or something, I’m not good with that shit. Through the center of the field is a dirt path. It feels natural, though, not like those horribly man-made paths which ruin the scenery. But the path effectively splits the field into two fields, if that makes any sense. Like this: []<field =<path = [ ]=[ ] = The girl asked me, as we walked down the path, how all these flowers got there. I come up with a sort of tale, and respond: “The flowers got there,” I say, “because of one man. The first ever man to die in winter. This was long ago, before many things we knew had grown to creation. The man lived in a harsh world, and knew almost nothing. When winter came there were no plants for him to eat, besides grass, and there was no meat for him to eat, because not many animals existed. And so, he laid himself against the back of the big, gnarled oak tree— the only one in existence, back then— and he waited to die. But as his skin went white as the snow around him, and as his body grew weaker, They took pity on the man. They walked over to him, and crouched down in front of the man. With a single finger They tipped his head up to face them. ‘What do you wish for?’ asked They. ‘Your final breaths are those which seal fate.’ ‘Please,’ the man said hoarsely, ‘I wish to see the sunset. I wish to see it forever, every day, and for all of my children to see it too, every day.’ And so They touched a finger to the man’s forehead, and he gained strength enough to lift his head and see the sunset; and when he died, They buried him in the ground, covering him with dirt. Then, the very next day, when the man’s children came to say their goodbyes, they noticed a small green bud growing from the soil atop his grave. Of course, They stood from afar, watching the man’s wish come true. Because, even as the children watched, the bud opened its petals and blossomed, and inside was revealed a sunset. The sun in its center was suspended by a small stem, and the petals blended together the reds and oranges that the children had only ever seen at dawn; and the kids watched as it continued to blossom and bloom. And thus the first flower was born. From that day onwards, the man’s wish was carried on. The flower became many, and after some time, little sunsets blossomed everywhere, for all the man’s children— all the WORLD— to see, forever. And to this day, even when the dirt covers the man’s grave, his face is preserved in the soft white petals of the flower, which he had become after death. And his face was always facing the sky, so that, no matter what, the sunset would always be his.” Basically, They (God? Or a god? Supernatural being? Who knows, not me) turns the man’s face to petals as the sun rises, so that he can live forever, and the sun stained the inside of him yellow, so even before he blooms he has the sun with him after death; and now he rests atop other graves, sharing the sun’s final beauties with them. As I told the tale I turned sharply in the middle of the road, to face one of the fields. A small path had been made, this one was much more natural, just a small space where the grass had been trampled down a bit. The girl leaned into me and listened intently, and she seemed so happy, it made me happy just looking at her. In the dream my skin was deeply tan, and holder her hand made contrast that (for some strange reason) made me even happier. I think it was because of the reminder of how different we were, and yet how in love, too. We went down the side of the field, where it sloped downwards. There was a big mud puddle at the bottom, so I lifted the girl into my arms and carried her across. She was smiling as I did so. Then, we looped back around, sneaking back through the gate. I brought her back to the same place I found her, only some Rich People were there, waiting angrily. They started to yell at me about how I was poor and she was rich, basically, so therefore I shouldn’t be with her. But together we shut them down fast, and I ran before too much trouble came up, darting through the fence gap and flashing the girl a smile before I ran. Skip forward in time and I’m in the same perspective, at a different place. Someone in the girl’s family had died, and I was in the back, uncomfortable but wanting to be there for her. A few rows ahead of me these two rich ladies, who were plump and whose hair was all gray, were talking. They had obvious makeup on, red cheeks and whatnot. They were talking about how sad the man’s death had been. But one lady said something like, “yes, I know! His birthday was just tomorrow, the party would’ve been SO lavish, I only wish he had lived a day longer so I could get a taste of that wine his father’s been holding onto!” The other lady mentioned how she loved to plan parties and how she, too, agreed that the man should’ve died a day later. I remember being revolted, but didn’t say anything, because I felt as if I didn’t belong there already; I wasn’t about to start anything.