I am falling into a pool of memories.
A pool of memories about your dream.
“Hey.”
I call you in repetition, following you from behind.
“Hey, listen to me.”
I remembered past events like projecting images. In this short instant your dream has been extended infinitely.
Even I have no idea of how far those events are in the past, though it was very far, I could tell. Like a Handan dream, one is prompted to consider it a long journey in one’s life, yet it is but a dream in a blink of an eye.
Therefore, it could have happened a few seconds ago, or thousands of years ago.
Anyway, I met you in this weird nightmare.
No, I didn’t meet you, I discovered you.
I have only vision but no contour, insignificant like a transparent man. I can’t even tell where my fingers are, but I follow behind you like a ghost.
The only moment when I could have a contour is when you stop your long lingering and reach the depths of the snow plain and enter the rainbow-colored tent. When you wake up, or when you pinch your own face, I will be forced to return to that tent.
Only when you wake up can I relax myself in that small, beautifully decorated room. I have no idea of why this is the case. Who are you? And who am I? I can understand nothing of this dream.
My lack of understanding perturbs me. I observe you from behind when you walk in your dream. I believe a key to solving all of this will appear somewhere, a key that will terminate this endless dream, cease this endless lingering, or shed light to the cause of this preposterous dream.
As such, I look for you madly, trying to intervene.
“Hey, wait.”
One day I luckily found you, walking with your two swinging pigtails.
The dream is broad and overly complicated, so I rarely meet you. Experience I have gained so far and your unique walking sound helped me find you.
At first I was cautious and only fixed my gaze on you. Then I couldn’t help but approach you. I try to make sounds, stretch my hand to you, but you take no notice and keep walking forward.
I am unpleased by your negligence.
I chase you like a child wanting to get attention from his or her mother.
“Hey, stop walking already.”
Your pace isn’t fast, but you walk in unexpected directions, so it is still hectic to follow you. You walk as if you know no fatigue, but I follow while panting.
It is difficult to believe that I can get worn out in a dream. And breathing in a dream sounds weird too.
These biological phenomena still restrict me in a dream.
If I am stabbed by a blade, I might as well bleed and die.
You walk in a dense forest. This forest has a fairy tale omen to it, like the forest where Hansel and Gretel discovered a candy house. A lot of trees and shrubs are grown inside. It is anything but a place for strolling. Still you stroll, harboring no fear of getting lost.
But I hate walking in this forest, afraid of tripping over tree roots, afraid of the bestial cries that come from nowhere, afraid of being engulfed in darkness by the dense branches.
The multitude of trees look like a crowd, forming lines that go off to their destinations, the station, the tram, the shops, and more. Among them, you appear especially lonely. Swiftly you walk, passing through those crowds.
Sometimes ghosts appear in the forest. They look the same as the disgusting sticky candies you find overseas, horrible monsters painted pink or emerald. They wander everywhere in the forest, some grinning, some sighing, some raging.
They would not hurt anyone, doing nothing but lurk in the forest like a beast. But if you approach them, they will stick to you wherever you go like a person of the visköses temperament, not letting go.
Like a gum chewed and spat on the road.
These ghosts are a bother, so you walked even faster.
Perhaps I am also a ghost that keeps on following you. I can’t talk with you. I can do nothing but look at you. I am a more disgusting presence than those trees you ignore.
Memories made with others leave marks on the heart. Contact with others creates cracks that deform the heart. As learning creatures, humans gain important psychological energy during growth even from negative memories. These unpleasant memories are saved as reflective material that reminds humans of what to avoid or what not to do. Some of them are not forgotten, but instead integrated into the unconscious.
The most detestable or painful memories still engrave themselves in the heart. Unable to be seen or touched, the psyche will always amass uncleanable stains.
What stain is there in my heart?
“Hey, who are you? What am I? Where are we?”
I ask you several times, thinking you might know something.
I feel uneasy.
This terror of not knowing what I am myself shakes my sanity. I have nothing to depend on, like a ship in a storm. I made many assumptions, but they are not assured, and no one will come and agree.
The only thing I can ascertain is that I am in a dream, and you are the special one. Other things at most repeat what they have been doing, deformed objects that even I do not dare to approach. You are the only one who travel through different kinds of worlds and gradually alter them.
I believe you are special and living. With this conviction, I hope I can strike a conversation with you.
“Hey, can you hear me?”
I don’t know whether you have a destination. Sometimes you walk straight without doubt, but sometimes you go in circles as if you are daydreaming.
The scene in this forest is the same everywhere, yet you walk around with no drop in enthusiasm. This isn’t a place to enjoy bathing in a forest, and all you do is strolling.
When will this meaningless walk end?
Suddenly you stop.
You have found something, I presume.
In front of you, something is jumping and hopping.
It is a frog, eye-catching in this gloomy forest. Like a gem, its fatness accentuates its awe. More unbelievable, however, is that it does not hate its fat. It jumped around with vigor and life.
In a dream, a frog probably symbolizes luck, hope, and happiness.
It is my misperception, maybe, but I still think things have taken a better turn.
You are probably tired of this endless lingering in the forest. You walk quickly to the frog. I can only see your back, but I guess your eyes are gleaming. You pay completely no attention to me, yet you are so excited by that frog. I begin to become a bit jealous of the frog.
The frog has a very strong presence, as if it belongs to a higher class than the gloomy forest. You hold out your hands to the vibrantly jumping frog. It does not resist, and you easily catch it. You grip its front hinds, shaking it around to take a better look.
Your head tilted, you seem to be thinking of something.
Since you stopped, I manage to catch up to you, sitting flat on the floor, deprived of strength, busy in regulating my breathing. Then I fixed my gaze on you, waiting for something good to happen.
But however I wait, nothing surprising happened.
Disappointed, you throw the frog away crudely. Are you a child who loses interest in something that fast? I want to reprimand you, but it will be shameful to get angry over a mere frog.
The frog you threw lands on me. Thrown off, I fall to the ground.
After some effort, I got the hateful amphibian off from me and held it in my hands like a doll.
Then I call for you.
“Hey, I think there must be some meaning to this frog. Won’t you try doing a little investigation?”
The frog stays on my hand docilely.
As if domesticated, it doesn’t stick out its tongue, cry, or move.
“Probably this frog is the key to unlocking this dream.”
I did my best to express what I think, yet you just continue walking.
I am getting impatient. I stand up, run a few steps in order to catch up with you. Cruelty rose in my heart. I did so much, yet you cared not a bit.
I cannot stand this.
You should be worrying and working as much as I do.
I put my face close to the frog’s buttocks.
Then I kiss it and boldly blow into it.
A cruel game village children play.
If the frog, the symbol of happiness, disappears, you will understand what important thing you have discarded.
The frog expands, becoming as round as a balloon. Bigger and bigger it becomes, more unnatural it gets.
In the blink of an eye, the pressure breaks through the frog’s skin and the frog explodes.
But its intestines didn’t fly out. It popped only like a bubblegum.
“How? How’s that?”
Even I myself didn’t understand why I would say that.
Maybe the long walk has drained me out and driven me nuts.
Soon I notice the frog’s skin has flown on your face.
You just stand there, fazed.
“Um. Sorry. Are you fine?”
As if I broke glass in a classroom and hurt a classmate, I am so terrified my face whitened, trembling too.
What am I doing? I did something terrible. I am reflecting on my wrongs, but a bigger question is what this meant.
The frog’s skin moves on its own, morphs, and wraps your face.
When it touches you, its symbol of luck becomes something otherwise.
It looks like a frog mask, as if you entire head is replaced by a frog’s face. Even those watery eyeballs look lively. You touch and poke your face with your fingers, unable to take it off.
Having become a freak with a frog head, you turn to me.
Have you finally noticed me?
I am as happy as a child who has attracted her parents with a mischievous act. Scold me, at least. Tell me I am a bad child and count the horrible things I did.
I tidy my hair, expecting for this moment.
With my hair done, I turn to you in embarrassment.
“I’m sorry. But you just don’t pay me any attention.”
I said apologetically.
But you made croak sounds.
“Hm?”
You open your mouth, sticking out your small and long tongue. It is not only a mask on you. Even the insides have been changed.
You throw your hands on the floor and jumped into the shrubs.
“Wait, where are you going?”
You jumped energetically away, leaving only croaking sounds for me to follow.
“Wait for me!”
Beat, I chase you.
I really have no idea of what is going on now.
But I sense something has slightly changed.
I am falling into a pool of memories.
A pool of memories about your dream.
“Hey.”
I call you in repetition, following you from behind.
“Hey, listen to me.”
I remembered past events like projecting images. In this short instant your dream has been extended infinitely.
Even I have no idea of how far those events are in the past, though it was very far, I could tell. Like a Handan dream, one is prompted to consider it a long journey in one’s life, yet it is but a dream in a blink of an eye.
Therefore, it could have happened a few seconds ago, or thousands of years ago.
Anyway, I met you in this weird nightmare.
No, I didn’t meet you, I discovered you.
I have only vision but no contour, insignificant like a transparent man. I can’t even tell where my fingers are, but I follow behind you like a ghost.
The only moment when I could have a contour is when you stop your long lingering and reach the depths of the snow plain and enter the rainbow-colored tent. When you wake up, or when you pinch your own face, I will be forced to return to that tent.
Only when you wake up can I relax myself in that small, beautifully decorated room. I have no idea of why this is the case. Who are you? And who am I? I can understand nothing of this dream.
My lack of understanding perturbs me. I observe you from behind when you walk in your dream. I believe a key to solving all of this will appear somewhere, a key that will terminate this endless dream, cease this endless lingering, or shed light to the cause of this preposterous dream.
As such, I look for you madly, trying to intervene.
“Hey, wait.”
One day I luckily found you, walking with your two swinging pigtails.
The dream is broad and overly complicated, so I rarely meet you. Experience I have gained so far and your unique walking sound helped me find you.
At first I was cautious and only fixed my gaze on you. Then I couldn’t help but approach you. I try to make sounds, stretch my hand to you, but you take no notice and keep walking forward.
I am unpleased by your negligence.
I chase you like a child wanting to get attention from his or her mother.
“Hey, stop walking already.”
Your pace isn’t fast, but you walk in unexpected directions, so it is still hectic to follow you. You walk as if you know no fatigue, but I follow while panting.
It is difficult to believe that I can get worn out in a dream. And breathing in a dream sounds weird too.
These biological phenomena still restrict me in a dream.
If I am stabbed by a blade, I might as well bleed and die.
You walk in a dense forest. This forest has a fairy tale omen to it, like the forest where Hansel and Gretel discovered a candy house. A lot of trees and shrubs are grown inside. It is anything but a place for strolling. Still you stroll, harboring no fear of getting lost.
But I hate walking in this forest, afraid of tripping over tree roots, afraid of the bestial cries that come from nowhere, afraid of being engulfed in darkness by the dense branches.
The multitude of trees look like a crowd, forming lines that go off to their destinations, the station, the tram, the shops, and more. Among them, you appear especially lonely. Swiftly you walk, passing through those crowds.
Sometimes ghosts appear in the forest. They look the same as the disgusting sticky candies you find overseas, horrible monsters painted pink or emerald. They wander everywhere in the forest, some grinning, some sighing, some raging.
They would not hurt anyone, doing nothing but lurk in the forest like a beast. But if you approach them, they will stick to you wherever you go like a person of the visköses temperament, not letting go.
Like a gum chewed and spat on the road.
These ghosts are a bother, so you walked even faster.
Perhaps I am also a ghost that keeps on following you. I can’t talk with you. I can do nothing but look at you. I am a more disgusting presence than those trees you ignore.
Memories made with others leave marks on the heart. Contact with others creates cracks that deform the heart. As learning creatures, humans gain important psychological energy during growth even from negative memories. These unpleasant memories are saved as reflective material that reminds humans of what to avoid or what not to do. Some of them are not forgotten, but instead integrated into the unconscious.
The most detestable or painful memories still engrave themselves in the heart. Unable to be seen or touched, the psyche will always amass uncleanable stains.
What stain is there in my heart?
“Hey, who are you? What am I? Where are we?”
I ask you several times, thinking you might know something.
I feel uneasy.
This terror of not knowing what I am myself shakes my sanity. I have nothing to depend on, like a ship in a storm. I made many assumptions, but they are not assured, and no one will come and agree.
The only thing I can ascertain is that I am in a dream, and you are the special one. Other things at most repeat what they have been doing, deformed objects that even I do not dare to approach. You are the only one who travel through different kinds of worlds and gradually alter them.
I believe you are special and living. With this conviction, I hope I can strike a conversation with you.
“Hey, can you hear me?”
I don’t know whether you have a destination. Sometimes you walk straight without doubt, but sometimes you go in circles as if you are daydreaming.
The scene in this forest is the same everywhere, yet you walk around with no drop in enthusiasm. This isn’t a place to enjoy bathing in a forest, and all you do is strolling.
When will this meaningless walk end?
Suddenly you stop.
You have found something, I presume.
In front of you, something is jumping and hopping.
It is a frog, eye-catching in this gloomy forest. Like a gem, its fatness accentuates its awe. More unbelievable, however, is that it does not hate its fat. It jumped around with vigor and life.
In a dream, a frog probably symbolizes luck, hope, and happiness.
It is my misperception, maybe, but I still think things have taken a better turn.
You are probably tired of this endless lingering in the forest. You walk quickly to the frog. I can only see your back, but I guess your eyes are gleaming. You pay completely no attention to me, yet you are so excited by that frog. I begin to become a bit jealous of the frog.
The frog has a very strong presence, as if it belongs to a higher class than the gloomy forest. You hold out your hands to the vibrantly jumping frog. It does not resist, and you easily catch it. You grip its front hinds, shaking it around to take a better look.
Your head tilted, you seem to be thinking of something.
Since you stopped, I manage to catch up to you, sitting flat on the floor, deprived of strength, busy in regulating my breathing. Then I fixed my gaze on you, waiting for something good to happen.
But however I wait, nothing surprising happened.
Disappointed, you throw the frog away crudely. Are you a child who loses interest in something that fast? I want to reprimand you, but it will be shameful to get angry over a mere frog.
The frog you threw lands on me. Thrown off, I fall to the ground.
After some effort, I got the hateful amphibian off from me and held it in my hands like a doll.
Then I call for you.
“Hey, I think there must be some meaning to this frog. Won’t you try doing a little investigation?”
The frog stays on my hand docilely.
As if domesticated, it doesn’t stick out its tongue, cry, or move.
“Probably this frog is the key to unlocking this dream.”
I did my best to express what I think, yet you just continue walking.
I am getting impatient. I stand up, run a few steps in order to catch up with you. Cruelty rose in my heart. I did so much, yet you cared not a bit.
I cannot stand this.
You should be worrying and working as much as I do.
I put my face close to the frog’s buttocks.
Then I kiss it and boldly blow into it.
A cruel game village children play.
If the frog, the symbol of happiness, disappears, you will understand what important thing you have discarded.
The frog expands, becoming as round as a balloon. Bigger and bigger it becomes, more unnatural it gets.
In the blink of an eye, the pressure breaks through the frog’s skin and the frog explodes.
But its intestines didn’t fly out. It popped only like a bubblegum.
“How? How’s that?”
Even I myself didn’t understand why I would say that.
Maybe the long walk has drained me out and driven me nuts.
Soon I notice the frog’s skin has flown on your face.
You just stand there, fazed.
“Um. Sorry. Are you fine?”
As if I broke glass in a classroom and hurt a classmate, I am so terrified my face whitened, trembling too.
What am I doing? I did something terrible. I am reflecting on my wrongs, but a bigger question is what this meant.
The frog’s skin moves on its own, morphs, and wraps your face.
When it touches you, its symbol of luck becomes something otherwise.
It looks like a frog mask, as if you entire head is replaced by a frog’s face. Even those watery eyeballs look lively. You touch and poke your face with your fingers, unable to take it off.
Having become a freak with a frog head, you turn to me.
Have you finally noticed me?
I am as happy as a child who has attracted her parents with a mischievous act. Scold me, at least. Tell me I am a bad child and count the horrible things I did.
I tidy my hair, expecting for this moment.
With my hair done, I turn to you in embarrassment.
“I’m sorry. But you just don’t pay me any attention.”
I said apologetically.
But you made croak sounds.
“Hm?”
You open your mouth, sticking out your small and long tongue. It is not only a mask on you. Even the insides have been changed.
You throw your hands on the floor and jumped into the shrubs.
“Wait, where are you going?”
You jumped energetically away, leaving only croaking sounds for me to follow.
“Wait for me!”
Beat, I chase you.
I really have no idea of what is going on now.
But I sense something has slightly changed.
